


Disguised Devotion

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blow Jobs, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Disguise, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hand Jobs, Hospitalization, Injury Recovery, Insomnia, Kissing in the Rain, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, Politics, Princes & Princesses, Semi-Public Sex, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 53,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is not what Hayato wanted to be doing during the ball." Hayato has responsibilities as the heir apparent to his father's kingdom, which he fulfills if not always with the best of grace until the day a peace delegation from a neighboring kingdom visits and impulsivity leads him into trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impulsive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



This is  _not_  what Hayato wanted to be doing during the ball.

The party was intended to be an icebreaker, a way to circulate and meet the ambassadors from the neighboring kingdom while taking advantage of the opportunity to show off the wealth of their own nation, to stun their political guests into a state of awe in advance of the more weighty discussions the next day. Hayato’s presence is more token than anything, the handsome heir apparent to be arranged artistically next to his older but no less attractive sister, the pair of them smiling and bowing or curtseying to the array of guests pausing by the dais. They’re not even wearing real masks, at least nothing that Hayato admits at such; he’d like something to cover his eyes, or ideally his mouth, to give him the excuse of disguise for a glare or a frown or both when all he wants to do is escape to bed or, failing that, to the bottom of a wineglass. Instead he’s given some decadent confection of a mask, so ornate and overdone it does nothing at all to hide either his features or his identity and requires him to maintain at least a neutral expression for the seemingly endless stream of well-wishers.

“I can’t even hear their names,” he growls to Bianchi sometime at the start of the second hour. At least  _she_  got to cover her eyes under a thin gauze of black veil stretched over a gilded frame, the entirety making her look like some sort of exotic bird or maybe an iridescent insect. “What’s the  _point_?”

“Smile,” she says, while demonstrating with a teasing pout of her own. “You look like you’re ready to strangle someone, Hayato.”

“I  _am_ ,” he snaps, glancing sideways with more force than he ought to bring to bear on what must be the hundredth guest today. The girl hesitates, flinching back from his gaze -- what  _is_  that costume she’s wearing, is she supposed to be a  _carriage_? -- before mumbling excuses he can’t hear and escaping into the crowd. “I don’t see why I have to be here, you can be polite for the both of us.”

“You’re doing yourself no favors right now,” Bianchi observes. “You really should be making more of an effort to ingratiate yourself. Particularly given the delegation.”

“I  _hate_  this,” Hayato growls. “You take over.”

“You’re still such a child,” Bianchi sighs, but there’s the tone of permission in her voice, enough for Hayato to move towards the edge of the official dais while she is still stepping forward to receive the next guest. The line seems endless, an ever-growing chain of attendees; Hayato ducks his head as he pushes through them, as if the angle will hide the tell-tale of his silver hair or the giveaway of his useless golden mask. Still, even if he can’t disappear into the crowd, royalty has some benefits; no one attempts to stop him, thanks to his father’s focus on the tensely trivial conversation he is having with the lead of the visitors and his sister’s enabling assistance. He makes it through the crush, past the sticky-sweaty air of the room and the tables stacked with food he doesn’t want, finally breaking into the cool air on the balcony.

It  _is_  cold, even after the initial shock of the transition from inside to outside has worn off. That explains why there’s no one else out here, the solitude more than enough to keep Hayato where he is even if the embroidery at the sleeves of his jacket is little help against the chill. The wind feels good, ruffles through his hair and clings to his skin, until he moves all the way out to the edge of the railing to catch the stray gusts, leans over so he can stare at the familiar lines of the garden below.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears footsteps, the catch of boots on tiled floor as someone approaches from inside. It’s not long enough for him to be shivering yet, still soon enough that he’s not ready to be dragged back inside, and when he turns around to offer a snappish response he’s expecting a servant, or maybe his father himself, angry as only a thwarted monarch can be.

He doesn’t recognize the figure that strides out onto the balcony. The dark hair rules out the possibility of the king as quickly as the athletic build, the fine cut of the clothes removing the possibility of a servant just as rapidly. The newcomer keeps coming, head tipped down and hand pushing through rumpled hair, doesn’t look up to see Hayato until he’s over halfway across the adjourning distance.

“Oh.” He pauses, hand still in his hair. Hayato can’t make out his features behind the ornate mask obscuring the top half of his face. “Sorry! I didn’t think anyone was out here.”

“Someone is,” Hayato snaps. “Find your own balcony.”

This does not effect the immediate departure he had hoped. The intruder’s hand slips from his hair, he makes a faint questioning noise, and then he’s moving  _in_  instead of away, coming closer until Hayato can see the shape of his mouth under the bottom edge of his mask. “Aren’t you the prince?”

Hayato groans. The other person -- a boy, really, probably about Hayato’s age or a little older even though he seems unnaturally tall with it -- takes another step, his lips starting to turn up around a smile.

“You are,” he says, sounding charmed and delighted even though Hayato can remember doing precisely nothing to deserve this reaction. “We met, just inside.”

“I don’t recall,” Hayato snaps, resorting to rudeness as he turns away to face out over the balcony. “I met a lot of people tonight.”

“Haha, yeah, I guess so.” The other boy seems unfazed by what Hayato considered unequivocal rejection, is coming in to stand at the railing next to the other boy, facing Hayato rather than looking out over the garden. “Don’t you like the party?”

Hayato cuts his eyes sideways, glaring at the other boy with as much royal disdain as he can pull around himself. “Of course I like it,” he deadpans. “It’s nothing at all like the  _dozens_  of other parties I’m forced to attend, where I meet hundreds of people I neither know nor care about and force a smile for visitors who are as likely to start a war with us as to sign a peace treaty.”

There’s a sound from the other, something between a choke and a cough; Hayato can see the laughter he’s trying and failing to repress in the moment before he gets a hand up to cover his mouth. He has a nice smile, wide and bright and unrestrained as Hayato almost never sees between the constant strain of his family’s dynamic and the obsequious groveling of supplicants angling for his favor. For a moment Hayato’s own perpetual scowl fades into neutrality, the surprise of the other’s reaction enough to override his own displeasure with the situation, and even when he reclaims his irritation it’s far more diffuse than it was before.

“It is cold out here, though,” the stranger offers, although he doesn’t look cold himself. He’s wearing a dark coat that looks black in the moonlight but is probably blue instead, from what sense of color Hayato can gather from the light spilling through the curtains to the ballroom. “Won’t you be more comfortable inside?”

“I’d rather be cold,” Hayato snaps. That gets him another bubbling laugh, the shift of movement in his periphery, and when he looks sideways the other boy is turning to lean against the railing, his back to the garden and with every appearance of staying where he is for some time. The light catches off the embroidery on his coat -- it is blue after all, wound all over with patterns of silver like frost collecting on leaves -- and illuminates his eyes, when Hayato looks up past the rich color of the fabric to actually consider the other’s face. The boy’s eyes are enormous, bright and warm as his smile; with the light to set them off they look like gold, beautiful like Hayato has never seen before.

“You don’t have to stay,” he hears himself saying, his throat working without his permission. He doesn’t sound as snappish as he wants to; the statement is almost a whisper instead of a growl, strangely gentle in the middle as he didn’t intend. “You’ll freeze out here. The party’s supposed to be fun, you know.”

“Mm,” the other boy hums, acknowledgment without agreement, tips his head to glance at Hayato. He’s smiling again. Hayato is pretty sure that expression with those eyes should be illegal. “I don’t mind.” His gaze slips away from Hayato’s eyes, dips down enough that Hayato has to make an effort to not consider where the other boy is looking before he looks away, back towards the light of the party. “It’s kind of fun, talking with the prince himself.”

“If you bring that up again I’ll  _command_ you back inside,” Hayato growls, and the other boy laughs again, the sound spilling up his throat until it curves into his eyes. “I’m not out here to be reminded of my position.”

“Sorry, sorry!” The stranger is looking at him again, blinking dark lashes over those caramel-rich eyes. “Ha, you’re really interesting.”

“What the fuck is  _that_  supposed to mean?” Hayato snaps, looking sideways, and the other boy is closer, now, leaning in against the support of the railing and tipping his head like he’s a curious bird. He’s too close; it’s not Hayato’s fault that he looks down, that he’s staring at the soft shape of the other boy’s smile. He can’t help it, with them in such close proximity, and then the stranger laughs, and the sound shudders down Hayato’s spine with the warmth lacking in the air.

“You just are.” The other boy shrugs, like this is a normal thing to say, like it’s no big deal, and he’s still smiling, and Hayato still isn’t looking away. There’s heat under his skin, burning with more weight than the usual anxious irritation he sustains at these sorts of events, and maybe it’s the late hour and maybe it’s a need to rebel and maybe it’s just the easy curve of the other boy’s smile, his evident happiness whispering promises of contagion if Hayato can just get close enough. The reason doesn’t matter, in the end. What matters is that something in Hayato settles into decision, impulsive action firing him into motion, and when he moves it’s to lean in over the gap between himself and those lips so he can press his mouth to the other boy’s.

He doesn’t intend to linger; he means for it to be a quick slide of friction, the heat of reckless stupidity to warm him off the skin of someone he’ll never see again. But the other boy makes a noise, a tiny choking whimper of shock, and when Hayato starts to pull away the other follows, crushes their mouths back together before he can frame an apology.

His mouth is warm. Against the chill of the air the body-heat radiance of the other boy’s lips is overwhelming, sweeping out into Hayato’s blood like painless fire. There’s the catch of the other boy’s mask against his cheek, strange friction at Hayato’s skin, and then the other opens his mouth in silent suggestion and Hayato forgets all about their masks, and their clothes, and the cold of the night. He’s too busy taking instead, stepping in to close the distance between their bodies and tasting out the damp of the other boy’s mouth. His heart is pounding in his chest, pulse fluttering in his throat, and there’s a hand against his shoulder and silver embroidery under his fingers and he doesn’t realize he’s purring satisfaction, the vibration humming through his mouth and catching at the other boy’s lips.

It feels like an infinity, with the crash of Hayato’s heartbeat pounding in his head and the liquid submission of the other boy to the pressure of his mouth. It’s not until Hayato’s jerking back, startled into movement by a half-heard peal of laughter from inside, that what he’s doing, what he’s  _done_ , hits him like the cold of the night has just been waiting to strike again.

“Shit,” he says, and “ _Shit_ ,” and he’s shoving away, pushing himself free of the other boy’s lingering hold. He’s blushing, he can feel the heat spreading sharp and painful over his cheeks, but when he looks up the mask is covering any equivalent response from the other. All he can see is the glazed warmth of his eyes, the damp part of his lips, and even that is enough to skid his heartbeat faster before he can catch himself.

“Fuck,” he says again. This is  _bad_ , this is a problem, he can’t let it be known that the next heir to the throne was-- but the thought offers a solution in itself, runs up against the compliant heat of the other’s lingering stare and becomes salvation.

Hayato straightens his shoulders, adopts his most regal tone in spite of the ache of heat across his cheeks. “Don’t tell  _anyone_  about this.” That’s good, he sounds more furious than panicked. “That’s an order.”

The other boy blinks. There’s motion at his mouth, a tug of movement at the corner like he’s fighting back a smile, but Hayato narrows his eyes and the suggestion of a laugh stays as no more than a hint of amusement.

“Okay,” he says, sounding only a little bit breathless, and Hayato turns and escapes back into the ballroom before he can undermine his own statement with additional threats. At least inside, he can pretend his flush is from the weight of heat in the air and not the burn of the blood in his veins.


	2. Resemblance

Hayato feels he deserves some credit for a valiant effort. He successfully lost himself in the crowd after his return inside, performed his duties as prince by dancing with both his sister and his mother, and if he kept eyeing the crowd for the deep blue of a silver-embroidered jacket he looked away every time he caught himself doing it, if not before his cheeks started to darken into a flush. Bianchi didn’t say anything, though the quirk of amusement at her lips said he might not be as free from suspicion as her silence might imply, and his mother just fretted about him being overheated and gave him the excuse needed to escape to his room. But even that is no good, though at least he can stop looking around a room of hundreds for a single stranger; it’s only after an hour of glaring at a book without seeing the words that he gives it up as a lost cause and throws himself into bed for restless dreams of half-seen faces and warm lips.

By the time he makes it down for breakfast the next day, he is short several hours of sleep and all-over irritable at the inexplicable rebellion of his thoughts, and he is in no mood to be polite at all to the delegation with whom they will be sharing meals for the duration of the week-long visit. Bad enough that he should have to dress in formal attire before he’s even eaten anything; politic conversation is well beyond him. He doesn’t look around the table at the delegates sprinkled in among the usual family members, barely manages to achieve eye contact with Bianchi across the cups and plates before he turns his attention to the setting in front of him and dedicates himself to eating with enough focus that he hopes it will deter any overtures, friendly or otherwise.

It works well for the first half-hour. He’s made it well into his food, is beginning to contemplate the possibility of feeling like a human again sometime in the near future, when the neighbor on his left-hand side clears his throat so carefully it sounds like an apology before he’s even put words to it.

“Excuse me!” The voice is too cheery, too bright and too loud for the hour of the day; Hayato winces at the volume too close to his ear, the overly friendly bump of an arm against his. “Could you pass down the bread over there?” There’s hand pointing at the tray in question; Hayato follows the line of the finger instead of looking up at the speaker, manages to bite back a snappish response as he reaches out for the golden-toasted slices. He deposits the tray into the reaching hands without a word, is rewarded with another excessively chipper, “Thanks!”

Hayato only glances at the other. It’s a momentary flicker of attention, instinctive tracking of someone speaking to him more than any real curiosity about the visitor who will be gone in a few days anyway. Unfortunately, it only takes a glance to catch the bright flash of a too-familiar smile, the motion of a blink over uncannily gold eyes.

“Holy  _shit_ ,” Hayato blurts without thinking. “ _You_.”

It’s possibly not his most graceful response. But he didn’t think to ever see his stranger from the night before again, much less sitting next to him at  _breakfast_ , and that means he’s part of the visiting delegation, and  _that_  means he’s…

But. The other is blinking at him, his expression wide-open with innocence, like he’s never seen Hayato before in all his life, and the mild curiosity in his gaze is enough to stagger the first flush of certainty that hit Hayato’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” the other says into the quiet Hayato realizes has descended at his burst of an exclamation. “I guess we haven’t been properly introduced, right?” He sets the tray down in front of him, wipes his fingers against the napkin laid over his lap, and offers his hand with another burst of that easy smile. “I’m Takeshi.”

“You really should pay more attention during introductions, Hayato,” Bianchi offers from across the table. “I’m sure you were introduced to the prince last night.”

“Ah, well,” Takeshi says, his smile going wider. There’s a dimple at the corner of his mouth. “I met dozens of people yesterday, I’m not even sure  _I_  remember being formally introduced.”

“Dozens,” Hayato scoffs, sarcasm taking over in the absence of any other input from his brain. “More like hundreds.” There’s a faint rustle of noise, laughter and a few shocked comments he doesn’t bother catching, and the rest of the table starts to go back to their conversations as his own loses its interest to the rest of the gathering. “We didn’t meet last night?”

Takeshi shrugs. “We can just meet now!” His hand is still out, fingers spread slightly apart; Hayato realizes he’s been waiting for a response. He can feel his face falling into a frown, his forehead creasing into irritation, but he takes the offered hold anyway, tightens his grip just past what should be comfort.

“I’m Hayato,” he says, fast, while the other boy’s eyebrows are jumping up at the force of his hold and his smile is cracking wide into a laugh again. That  _has_  to be the same laugh, right? “You don’t have a brother, do you?”

“Hm?” Takeshi’s hand slides free of Hayato’s, his gold eyes blinking wide and faintly confused. “No, just me. No sisters, either. Why?”

Hayato has a brief, manic thought of blurting  _Because I kissed someone last night who had your eyes and your smile and your laugh but you’re looking at me like we’ve never met before and the negotiations were_ not  _supposed to start with me kissing the visiting prince the day of his arrival._  The idea catches hysterical laughter into his throat, threatens his cheeks with the scarlet of a flush before he can look back down at his plate.

“Nothing,” he says, too fast. “No reason.”


	3. Tolerant

By the third day, Hayato has come to the conclusion that of all the irritations and necessary evils that come with his royal position, putting up with outside visitors is the worst. Specifically, putting up with the  _one_  visitor he has been stuck with since the day the discussions started by virtue of their similar age and similar position and the fact that apparently neither of them has anything better to do than drive each other crazy.

“This is beautiful!” Takeshi chirps, turning his head up to the blue of the sky overhead, his expression as warm and delighted as if he’s on vacation and not ostensibly attempting to avert a war.

“I don’t know what you’re so excited about,” Hayato growls, because he has figured out that he can get away with remarkable amounts of impoliteness if no one else is around, and because he has no better way to express his constant high-strung anxiety at the other’s presence. “It’s just a garden.”

“It looks amazing in the sunshine,” Takeshi says, stepping over one of the low hedges that are supposed to mark out the lines of the pathways for people without ridiculously long legs. “It rains a lot back home; it’s nice that you can be outside most days here without getting soaked.”

“Not as nice as it looks,” Hayato scoffs. “You can’t even leave the castle when the winter storms come in, not if you don’t want to get hit by lightning or crushed by a falling branch.”

“Oh wow, exciting!” Takeshi looks back at Hayato, smiling so wide and so bright it’s teetering on the edge of breaking into a laugh. The wind catches his hair, ruffles it up across his forehead, but he doesn’t seem at all concerned about the disarray.

“ _Dangerous_ ,” Hayato corrects, sharp and snappish, and Takeshi does laugh, then, his eyelashes fluttering shut as his smile breaks wide all over his features.

“You’re so angry all the time,” he says, and Hayato is ready to bristle up at this insult except that it doesn’t sound like an insult, it sounds calm and soft and very nearly affectionate, until he’s almost afraid to look up at Takeshi’s face.

“It’s not like I don’t have a reason for it,” is the best he can manage, but even that is softer than he intends, sounds more defensive than furious. “I wasn’t planning on babysitting an idiot prince for the entirety of this visit, you know.” He has a chill of regret as the words leave his lips, a sense of overstepping some boundary he was barely managing to observe before, but Takeshi just blinks at him, the wide-open gold of his eyes sweeping aside the possibility of offense before it has even settled there.

“You don’t have to amuse me,” he says. He tips his head to the side, the movement reminding Hayato unavoidably of a bird before he breaks into another pointless laugh, delight at something Hayato can’t understand. “Anything you want to do is fine, you know.”

Hayato glares at him. There’s no way he can piece words to the feeling tight in his chest, the strain of nervous discomfort that has plagued him ever since the ball the first night of the delegation’s arrival. He can’t explain that this  _is_  what he wants to do, that he  _should_  be enjoying himself. But all his favorite ways to pass the time just go sharp and strained with tension he can’t explain when Takeshi’s around; he can’t pay attention to the beauty of the flowers or the smooth elegance of the pathways when all he can focus on is the way Takeshi’s eyes crinkle when he smiles or the way his throat looks when he tips his head back to laugh. And then there’s the problem of his memory, the flickers of recollection that appear at the most inopportune times, when Takeshi’s sleeve brushes his or the other boy’s hair ruffles in a certain way, and Hayato will be certain all over again that the impossible is somehow reality again, that the shape of Takeshi’s smile would be familiar if he could just press his mouth to the soft give of the other’s lips.

He doesn’t pull together any of that, does exactly what he’s done since the first day he met Takeshi and shoves the thoughts away and back, hoping desperately that maybe this time it’ll be enough force to break their hold on him. He doesn’t have much hope for that, but right now it’s the best he can do, stall and delay until Takeshi leaves and he never has to see him again.

“Let’s go back inside,” Hayato finally says, when the silence between them has gone on long enough that Takeshi’s expression is falling into soft inattention, that his gaze is starting to drift across Hayato’s features like a touch the other isn’t sure he wants. He turns away, the movement sharp with decision as he heads back towards the castle without waiting for the other to catch him up. There’s the scrape of boots against gravel, Takeshi stepping back over the hedge to fall into step just at Hayato’s heels, but Hayato doesn’t turn around.

It’s easier if he doesn’t look.


	4. Judgment

Two days before the delegation is supposed to leave, a storm hits.

Usually Hayato doesn’t mind the occasional storms and their associated lightning and thunder; they leave him free to hole up in the library, to immerse himself in a book without judgment from his mother or his sister. But if Takeshi is irritatingly enthusiastic outside he’s twice as bad when they’re trapped indoors, apparently unable to sit still or go more than five minutes without asking a question. Hayato barely lasts a half hour before he slams his book shut and retreats to the library with the excuse of finding something more interesting just to buy himself a few moments of peace.

He’s not expecting to find Bianchi perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the open front space. They are intended to appear comfortable, regardless of their actual softness; Hayato usually forgoes them entirely, hides farther back in the space in one of the chairs he managed to get the servants to bring in months ago that look less gratuitously overblown and feel much more comfortable. But Bianchi has always been better about maintaining appearances than he has -- the burden of the eldest child, he supposes, heir to the crown or not -- and now is no exception. The dark crimson of her gown is spread over her knees, her back straight and shoulders back, and when she looks up at him there’s not even a flicker of irritation visible on her features at being interrupted.

Hayato doesn’t mind. He has more than enough irritation for the both of them.

“I’m going to  _kill_  that idiot,” he growls before the door has swung shut behind him, stomps into the room to cast his book onto the table with far less care than he would normally show for the embossed-leather cover. “What am I supposed to even  _do_  with him, why is he even  _here_?”

“It’s intended as a sign of goodwill,” Bianchi observes, drawing the ribbon of a bookmark between the pages of her book so she can lean back into something better approximating comfort. “Sending the crown prince along with the delegation shows they’re serious about the talks.”

“He’s  _useless_ ,” Hayato growls, on-edge from a morning of inane questions and too-bright laughter that fairly echoes off the enclosed space of the castle. “He smiles too much and he laughs too loud, you would think we’re not even enemies.”

“We’re  _not_  enemies yet,” Bianchi says, with more biting emphasis in her tone than Hayato expected. It cuts off his tirade mid-sentence, leaves him blinking at her in shock while she glares back at him. “It’s the best sign of this entire effort that the prince has taken such a liking to your company.” Bianchi sighs, some of the smooth line of her shoulders slumping into heavy exhaustion, and when she speaks again it’s with her eyes on the weight of the book Hayato cast on the table. “Far more effective than the talks have been.”

There’s a chill that runs down Hayato’s spine, formless fear at something in the weight on Bianchi’s shoulders and the resignation in her voice. “Is it that bad?” He hates the way he sounds, his voice high and childishly frightened, but he can’t tidy the sound into maturity when he is so completely lacking in information. “You’re not even in the talks yourself, how do you know?”

Bianchi’s laugh purrs in her throat, real amusement sharp-edged at his expense. “All you have to do is pay attention to something other than how much you dislike the envoy of their royal family.” When she stands it’s in a swirl of satin and brocade, the sound as much judgment as the tossed-back angle of her shoulders and the steel in her eyes. “Or ask the right questions of the right people. If you’re going to play the uninformed royal heir, you might as well keep company with your match from the other side. At least that way you two aren’t getting underfoot.”

Her words sting, make Hayato flinch as if every syllable is drawing blood. It would be easier if he could push them away or deny them with anything other than sheer desperate will that they not be true. But they  _are_  true, he knows, even as he starts to snap “That’s not  _fair_ ” for appearances more than anything else; he’s been caught up in his seething irritation, too pinned down by the nights that deny him any real sleep and the days that torment him with almost-familiarities in everything Takeshi says or does.

Bianchi tosses her head, the haughty tilt of her chin Hayato particularly hates, the one that makes him feel like he’s five years old and she’s lecturing him on his atrocious table manners. “It’s not,” she agrees, but her tone is too cutting for Hayato to believe there is any reprieve coming for him. “At least Prince Takeshi is trying to foster goodwill. That’s far more than you can claim.” And she’s gone, out the door in a rustle of fabric before Hayato can close his mouth or compose an adequate reply to the scathing judgment laying his own behavior bare.

It’s a few minutes before his cheeks stop burning with self-conscious flush. Even when he leaves, his shoulders are hunched like a wall around his face, his skin still prickling uncomfortably with shame. He doesn’t think about the book he failed to retrieve until he’s almost back at the room where he left Takeshi, and by then he’s too tight-wound with the sneaking suspicion he should apologize and the unwillingness to do so to go back. He pushes the door open instead, the weight of it gliding in so smoothly it barely makes a whisper against the floor, and when he looks up Takeshi hasn’t turned around from the window yet.

He looks older, with his mouth relaxed out of the active smile he always has on around Hayato. There’s an attention in his eyes as he stares out at the storm, like he’s finding the sleeting rain or the wind-tossed branches fascinating on some deeper level than the topmost, and Hayato hesitates in the doorway to stare at his profile, the clean line of the bridge of his nose and the unconscious part to his lips. Even the motion of his eyelashes is distracting, the shift of his chin when he tips his head enough to skip over all the guilt and shame in Hayato’s mind to that certainty, that same unshakeable confidence that he  _knows_  that mouth, those eyes, that Takeshi  _must_  be feigning ignorance as completely as Hayato is dodging asking the question that would resolve all his stress.

Then Takeshi turns, like he’s feeling the other’s eyes on him, and it takes everything in Hayato to keep from making an instinctive retreat out the door and into the safety of the hallway. His pushed-aside flush returns with force, burning out across his cheekbones and along the line of his throat until he’s sure he’s as red as Bianchi’s dress.

“Hi,” Takeshi says, offering that smile again, and Hayato’s security in his recollection skids away again, fragments until he can’t tell if he does recognize that expression or just wants to. “Did you not find the book?”

“Shut up,” Hayato snaps, although it has less force than he intends. He steps forward out of the doorway so the weight of it can swing back into place. “It’s pointless to try to read with you here anyway.”

He doesn’t put words to the apology prickling under his skin. Even if he has nothing else left, he’s not about to give up on his stubbornness.


	5. Regrets

The farewell reception is a much less structured affair than the welcoming ball. Hayato would have considered that a boon, a week ago, freedom from that endless line of well-wishers, nothing burdening him except his usual responsibility of not making a complete fool of himself. But he’s feeling anxious, tonight, would welcome the excuse of introductions to keep his mind off his lingering questions, the suspicions that have become no more certain after days of consideration, and on top of all of that he has entirely lost Takeshi to the crowd. He saw the other boy when he came in, the gold-trimmed blue of the other boy’s country’s colors, but in the first rush of pointless nerves Hayato retreated to a wineglass, and when he was sufficiently ready to track down the other Takeshi proved impossible to find.

It shouldn’t be possible to lose someone with a smile that bright and a laugh so carrying, particularly when he has the height to stand taller than most in the room. But lost he is, and Hayato can’t muster up the nerve to ask after him, so instead he stays where he is, finishes his first and then a second glass of wine, and by the time the third is half-gone he’s well on his way to tipsy and farther along the path to irritable with regret.

He doesn’t even know  _what_  he regrets. Not finding his mystery stranger, maybe, not resolving why Takeshi looks so much like the hazy memory of his thoughts, not being kinder sooner to the other. Maybe he’s sorry that they’re still on the verge of war, that the next time they meet may be on a battlefield and Hayato doesn’t even know what he’d want to say, except that that image chills all through his blood until he has to set the half-finished glass down and lean at the table while he waits for the vertigo of panic to pass. It shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t  _care_ , it wasn’t three days ago he was complaining about Takeshi, and just because he’s leaving now doesn’t mean Hayato has to  _like_  him, doesn’t mean he has to _miss_  him.

He can’t calm down. The adrenaline already at the back of his thoughts has a grasp on him now, is trembling through his veins and fluttering in his stomach until he feels like he’s falling, until nausea joins forces with inebriation and leaves him feeling suddenly, violently ill.

Staying is out of the question. Vomiting would definitely constitute unacceptable behavior, and besides he has nothing to do here anyway, no one who cares at all to speak to him and no reason to stay, since Takeshi has apparently slipped out and doesn’t need to be kept occupied. The thought is bitter but it’s enough to steady him, a little, the sour burn of self-flagellation forcing back his nausea through sheer force of will while he maneuvers to the doorway. No one tries to stop him -- most people because they are too caught up in their own conversations, or too awed to speak to him, and the rest, he suspects, because the white pallor of his face and the clammy chill at his skin is enough to explain his departure better than words could do.

Opening the door is like letting a surge of quiet into the babble of the dinner, stepping out like fresh air even though there’s nothing different about the enclosed space of the hallway compared to the ballroom. Hayato lets the door swing shut behind him, shuts his eyes and takes a breath as his stomach settles, and while his eyes are shut:

“Hayato?” shocked and warm and  _familiar_ , so familiar he doesn’t have to wait for recognition to hit. He just turns, pivoting on his heel as fast as his eyes are coming open, and there Takeshi is, getting to his feet with guilty haste from where he must have been sitting alongside the door.

Hayato’s stomach drops, keeps dropping, but there’s no nausea now, nothing but heat flushing all over his skin, a burst of relief at this satisfaction he didn’t know he was looking for. Takeshi is staring at him, his lips curving up into an involuntary smile before his gaze slides down over Hayato’s features and his expression falls out of simple happiness into lines of concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a half-step forward. His hand comes out, fingers curving into an offer of support like he’s expecting Hayato to collapse where he stands. “You don’t look too good.” His eyes are wide, his lips barely parted and soft with concern, and Hayato  _knows_.

He moves instead of answering. It’s not far, just a pair of too-long steps, and then his hands are on Takeshi’s shoulders, he’s shoving the other boy back against the wall to reclaim the distance the other had covered. Takeshi hits hard and unresisting, the sound of a forced exhale speaking to his impact, but Hayato doesn’t care and he isn’t waiting anymore.

“I  _know_  it was you,” he growls, the words hot with absolute certainty on his tongue, and he leans in to press his mouth to Takeshi’s.

There’s no noise of shock this time, no startled reaction against his lips. But the submission is the same, the melting-hot give of familiar lips against his own, and Hayato is growling victory and fury together as his hand comes up, as his fingers catch on dark hair that proves even softer than it has looked these last days.

He doesn’t let the kiss expand, doesn’t let the sensations swamp his awareness; he’s too angry for that, too frustrated and vicious with his accurate recollection to linger. But his hand stays where it is, forms a fist in Takeshi’s hair, so when Hayato pulls back he can keep Takeshi from following him by the force of his hold.

“ _You_ ,” and it’s an insult and a wail and a purr all at once. “Why didn’t you  _tell_  me it was you?”

“You told me not to,” Takeshi says immediately, his eyes -- his  _gold_  eyes, Hayato was  _right_  about those -- fixed on Hayato’s mouth like all the rest of his world has ceased to exist. “You said not to tell anyone.”

“I didn’t mean  _me_ , you  _idiot_ ,” Hayato snaps, but his hold at Takeshi’s hair is slipping loose, or maybe he’s just leaning in anyway, because they’re coming back together again, Takeshi’s whimpering something incoherent and grateful against his mouth and Hayato’s licking at the other’s lips, sweeping the heat of Takeshi’s mouth up over his tongue. His head is spinning and he’s fairly sure now it’s not from the wine, not when he can taste every sound Takeshi makes against his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Takeshi gasps when Hayato pulls back again. His hands are laced through the other’s hair; Hayato didn’t even notice the movement, didn’t process the lesser heat of Takeshi’s touch for the pressure on his lips. “I didn’t think you remembered me.”

“I  _remembered_  you,” Hayato snaps, dragging maybe harder than he should at Takeshi’s hair. The other boy’s head goes back, his throat tightening on a whining note of reaction, and Hayato is left to stare at the line of his throat, the vibration of sound thrumming along it until it’s cut off by the edge of a blue collar. “I haven’t been able to sleep for remembering and not knowing it  _was_  you.”

There’s a laugh, the bright sound Hayato has learned to hate over the last few days, but there’s no irritation in him now, just heat rising to the surface like bubbles in champagne and leaving him flushed and breathless. “You’ve been thinking about me too?”

“You  _idiot_ ,” Hayato blurts again, lets Takeshi’s hair go so he can avoid the too-tempting curve of his throat. “We’ve been  _wasting_  all this time.” A growl, a frown, but Takeshi is still staring at him with his eyes gone shadowed and out-of-focus and Hayato can’t keep a grasp on his anger. “I’ve been taking you around the gardens and reading with you and trying to teach you history and we could have been doing  _this_ ” and he’s in again, Takeshi’s unravelling against his lips and clinging to his shoulders like he can’t stand and  _this_  is what it was, that first night, this is better even than Hayato remembered, it’s turning all his recollections of irritation with the other boy warm and soft-edged.

They can’t stay, Hayato knows they can’t. The doors could come open at any moment, and even the creak of warning won’t give them time to more than jump apart, will leave Takeshi’s hair rumpled from Hayato’s fingers and both their cheeks flushed high with color. But pulling away will mean  _goodbye_ , will mean letting go of something Hayato has been desperately reaching for since his first taste of it, and he can’t make himself move.

When they have so little time left, they have to make the most of it.


	6. Logic

Hayato hadn’t known that it was possible to be mind-numbingly bored and furious at the same time.

“We  _can’t_ ,” he insists for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, his voice rising high and shriller than he’d like. “What is  _wrong_  with all of you, do you  _want_  to go to war?”

“I never expected this from you, Hayato,” his father intones from the end of the table, but his rebuking tone stopped having its full effect some years ago, and right now Hayato is too angry for judgment to touch him.

“I agree,” one of the councilors says, heavy brows drawn dark like stormclouds over his features. “With all due respect, your highness, you lack the historical basis for these claims.”

“Oh, shut  _up_ ,” Hayato snaps. “You just don’t want to allow for the possibility of compromise.”

“You haven’t been present at the negotiations, you don’t even know what they  _want_ ,” one of the other advisors growls from a few seats farther down the table. “How can you speak of compromise when their demands would ruin our whole kingdom?”

“It is  _your_  kingdom I am thinking of,” Hayato’s father growls, his voice the low rumble of thunder on the horizon. “I would expect the heir to the throne to be more concerned with the welfare of his own country than maintaining a gentle touch with his enemies.”

Hayato can feel his cheeks flushing, self-consciousness challenging embarrassment for control over his features as his traitor memory chooses this precise moment to offer an unintended interpretation to his father’s words. He narrows his eyes instead of retreating, frames his voice into anger instead of a tremble, and when he pushes to his feet he hopes the aggression will help disguise the way his skin is starting to glow red.

“It is  _exactly_  my country I am concerned with,” he snaps, even if that’s only half true, even if his logic is mostly a wrapper for the ache of loneliness that always wakes him just before his dreams tip out of recast memories and into complete fantasy. “You’re so anxious to fall back to force you’re not considering the way this will  _look_.”

“ _What_?” his father grates, his entire expression a single condensed threat, but Hayato glares right back, ignoring the reactions of everyone else at the table as unimportant.

“They sent  _us_  a peace delegation,” he snaps, pressing his palm flat to the table to stall the trembling he can’t wholly suppress. “They sent a member of the  _royal family_  here as a gesture of good will.” His throat is going tight on the name aching for his voice, his skin flushing hot just at the thought of Takeshi -- his smile, his laugh, the taste of his mouth -- but his frustration is force enough to urge him forward in his argument in spite of the desire sticking to his blood. “And you want to declare war without even an attempt at reciprocation.” The room goes quiet, the silence speaking to his hit, but his father is still glaring, still looking like he’s on the verge of true rage. “Are you  _trying_  to make us into the villains here?”

His father’s hand comes down on the table, palm smacking so loud against the wood Hayato jerks in shock. “ _Fine_ ,” he spits, so low and furious it takes Hayato a moment to process the word as permission instead of refusal. “You’re so interested in playing diplomat, you can take your damn peace delegation and put on as pretty a show as you want. I know how much you  _love_  social gatherings, Hayato, I’m sure you’ll have an  _excellent_  time.” He rises to his feet, his eyes still dark and snapping with frustration as they always get when he and Hayato fight. “ _Then_  we’ll continue our discussion, once your sense of  _justice_  has been soothed.” He pivots away, strides towards the door in a few long steps; there’s a pause as he reaches the door, his hand flat and pushing against the weight of it. When he speaks it’s without turning.

“I don’t want to hear a  _word_  of complaint from you on this, Hayato.” The room is dead silent now; Hayato doesn’t look around to see if any of the advisors are looking at him. “If I hear of you indulging in one of your usual petty tantrums during this visit your return will be less than welcome.”

The door opens, the king leaves. There’s barely time for a breath before the rest of the room stands to make for the door as rapidly as possible; Hayato’s fights with the king are well-known, and all in all this was tamer than they usually are. Hayato supposes on some distant level that they are looking to escape before what must surely be an inevitable explosion on his part.

He’s grateful to his reputation, even if it’s entirely wrong in this case. It gives him an empty room before anyone thinks to ask why he hasn’t sat back down, or sees that his cheeks are still flushed with something that isn’t anger, or notices that his arm is starting to tremble with the adrenaline of disbelieving delight.

He’d hate to let on that what was intended as punishment is more suited to his desires than he has been willing to let himself hope for.


	7. Disappointment

By the time they arrive at the castle, it’s been raining for  _hours_.

Hayato doesn’t understand how the weather can persist so completely. It’s not like he hasn’t seen rain before, but this kind of heavy downpour is well outside the bounds of his expectations, particularly with the dark clouds overhead speaking to its continuation well into the future. Appearances are important, he knows, but the entire party looks as bedraggled as he feels, and even the tie holding his hair into some semblance of order isn’t enough to keep him from feeling as cold and unpleasant as the weather around him. The thought of being so close to his goal barely sparks warmth in his chest; it seems surreal, now, like maybe somehow this was all a huge mistake, the rain drowning the hope that has pushed him through the weeks of preparations and the days of travel necessary to cross the distance between the two kingdoms. Hayato needs a bath, and he wants dinner, and by the time they can make out the faint glow of light beckoning them on to the castle the shadowy walls feel far more threatening than welcoming.

Hayato doesn’t have to announce them. That’s the job of the actual delegation leader, a man so calm and prone to discussion Hayato is endlessly impressed he’s able to decide what to wear in the morning. All he’s left to do is sit up straight and look as dignified and regal as he can manage with water dripping across his face and down the back of his neck and do his absolute best to not look for Takeshi in the welcoming committee.

Looking or not, it doesn’t take long to realize he’s not there. Hayato has a chill of foreboding; does Takeshi not want to see him? Does he even know he’s coming? After his father’s declaration he hadn’t thought about the logistics of this visit, had avoided thinking about it at all except for daydreams too warm and soft-edged to even consider except late at night by insomniac candlelight. He had thought it would be enough to save him from the disappointment that has proven inevitable in his life thus far, but the cold weight in his stomach argues otherwise, now that the point has come. His shoulders lose some of their strength, slump heavy under his soaked-through jacket, and it’s at that moment the delegation leader looks back at him as if to request his input.

“Sorry,” he says, aiming for politeness in his tone since he can’t manage enthusiasm. He’s not sure how effective this attempt is. “What did you say?”

“We are so grateful to have you here,” the councillor standing in front of them says, offering a bow so low Hayato briefly wonders if they’re being mocked. “We wished to inquire regarding your highness’s preference for the evening. We can have dinner prepared for you all, but given the weather we thought perhaps you might wish to defer such a celebration until tomorrow evening instead.”

Hayato’s mind skids through a few frantic calculations. A dinner would mean another opportunity to see Takeshi; surely the crown prince would be present at such a formal occasion, if only to prevent giving offense to the visitors. But the disappointment at not having him here immediately, however illogical, is seeping ice into Hayato’s veins, freezing all his hope into the expectation of misery. With such high expectations there’s no way he won’t be disappointed; how could anyone live up to the anticipation he’s crafted in his head? There’s nothing for him to look forward to, in the end; Takeshi isn’t here, and surely when they do meet they will be occupied with polite small talk, or maybe they won’t even get along with the constant weight of the rain to pin Hayato’s excitement to the ground. Did Hayato even  _like_  the other boy in the first place? He can’t remember, not when all his memories are turned unintelligible and hot with the last to be added, but even that is fading out, the memory of breathless friction and the drag of desperate fingertips through soft hair going unreal and impossible under the cold shadow of daylight.

“I want a  _bath_ ,” is what he says, his voice going so involuntarily plaintive it gets a laugh from the rest of the delegation and a smirk from the councillor, unmistakable even if he ducks his head in an attempt to cover the reaction. Hayato closes his mouth hard, feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but even that heat is far-off, nothing like enough to warm the chill settled into his core.

He clears his throat, adopts the best royal tone he can muster. “It’s been a lengthy journey.” He’s not sure how effective it is, but the laughter goes silent in deference to his position if not his actual appearance. “Introductions will be of much better service to us once we’ve all had a chance to rest and recover for the evening.”

“Of course,” the councillor says, dipping his head in acknowledgment that looks at least somewhat sincere. “I can show you to your quarters, and our kitchens will bring you whatever you’d like to eat for dinner.”

Hayato isn’t hungry anymore. His stomach is soured by cold and disappointment and exhaustion all together, misery unwinding through him until it’s hard to keep his face from falling into a frown. But he has a job to do, even if his personal hopes have been thoroughly dashed, and what he says is, “Thank you. We appreciate your understanding,” with the best smile he can manage.

He doesn’t think anyone can fault him if it doesn’t touch his eyes.


	8. Damp

It takes a long time to fill the bathtub.

Hayato wouldn’t mind this as much if he were at home. He could at least make a start on getting out of his wet clothes if he were around familiar faces, wouldn’t need to concern himself nearly so much with maintaining a level of dignity befitting a visiting prince. But he’s awkward, uncomfortable in the chambers that feel far too large without the comfort of the books he has stashed in his own bedroom, and that and the awareness of his role keep his spine straight and all his dripping clothes entirely fastened until the tub is sufficiently full of steaming water.

He finally stands as the last of the serving men collect their empty buckets, leaving him with a maid who dips a precise curtsey and offers to bring him something to eat from the kitchens or some other options for soap.

“No,” he says, blanket refusal for both offers, trying to keep his expression neutral enough to avoid seeming rude. “I would prefer to rest, thank you.”

The girl dips her head and, thankfully, retreats to the hallway, easing the door shut behind her. Hayato starts in on his buttons before she’s gone, pushing them free of sodden buttonholes that make him glad of the tile to catch the splash of water that accompanies every movement. His boots need to come off too -- he drops to the floor to tug those off after his overcoat is loose, dragging the weight free and peeling socks off to reintroduce his feet with air not passing through drenched fabric. Then his shirt, the fall of lace at his throat too ostentatious for travel but necessary for appearances; he tosses it into the corner to join his boots and coat, is looking down to fumble the loose of his undershirt up over his head when the sound of a knock freezes him where he is.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, quietly enough that it won’t carry. He glances at the pile of discarded clothes -- but there’s no time to struggle back into them, and his chilled skin prickles unpleasantly at the very idea of removing the freedom he has granted it. The steam in the air is a reminder of his request, offers an impermeable excuse should someone be offended at his state of undress, and when he moves towards the door it’s on bare feet and wearing a scowl far better suited to his mood than the smile he’s been forcing for the last half-hour.

“Apologies,” he’s growling as he drags the door open, pivots around the corner to see who has come to offer him dinner again. “I was just about --”

He blinks. It’s not the clean white of a servant’s uniform in front of him but the rich blue of expensive dyes, not a bowing maid but a boy so tight-wound he’s all but bouncing on his toes, and then Hayato looks up into radiant eyes and feels all his sense of gravity tip smoothly sideways and away.

“Hi,” Takeshi gasps, sounding breathless like he’s been running or like he can’t stand to hold the words back. “I missed you.”

Hayato doesn’t think. He doesn’t waste time on words, or logic, or waiting for the hum of shock in his ears to fade. He just reaches out, fingers closing into a fist careless of the value of the fabric crushing under his touch, and drags Takeshi forward hard. He moves as fast as Hayato pulls, stumbling past the entrance to the room and reaching out to match Hayato’s hold, and Hayato comes up on his toes to press his mouth to Takeshi’s before he’s yet fumbled the door shut. There’s a whimper, a burst of vibration and heat at his mouth, and they both go stumbling together, the door slamming shut from the impact of Hayato shoving Takeshi against it. He has both hands caught in Takeshi’s shirt, now, the fabric far thinner than any of the formal clothing the other boy wore during his first visit, and there are fingers at Hayato’s neck, slipping up into his hair to push the tie off-center.

“You’re wet,” Takeshi says when Hayato falls back for a moment to gasp for air and appreciate the way Takeshi’s shirt is dragging at one shoulder, to stare shadows at the line of tanned collarbone laid bare by the fabric.

“Yeah,” Hayato growls, “It’s  _raining_ , idiot,” and he’s ducking in closer. Takeshi turns his head down in expectation of another kiss, but it’s his shoulder Hayato is after, the soft clean of his skin begging for the indentation of teeth and tongue and lips. Takeshi makes a weird sound when Hayato’s mouth hits his skin, a whimpering moan as his fingers drag over the back of the other’s neck, and Hayato growls, rocks in closer until the wet of his undershirt is catching damp into Takeshi’s clothes.

“Where  _were_  you?” he demands without pulling away, the words pouring out across the other’s skin while Takeshi’s fingers shudder into tension and then steady again at the back of his neck. “I thought I’d see you right when we showed up.”

“I’m sorry,” Takeshi says. Hayato can feel him moving, the warmth of his lips coming in to drag over the rain-chilled wet of his hair. “I didn’t know you were here yet, I thought it’d be later tonight.” His fingertips slide under Hayato’s collar, skim across his shoulders, and Hayato shudders convulsively, the reaction entirely divorced from the chill he was feeling moments before. “And then they said the delegation was here and I came to find you.”

“God,” Hayato says, kisses a line up Takeshi’s neck so the other’s head tips sideways, so his breath rushes out in a whimper. “Everyone’s going to  _know_ , won’t someone come looking for you?” He’s sliding his hands down over the tremble in Takeshi’s chest, dragging at the bottom edge of his shirt to work it free from his pants; the cloth is spilling in silky waves over his fingertips, the texture breathtakingly soft, but Hayato isn’t interested in the fabric. He shoves it aside, lets it catch at his wrists so he can push his hands up underneath it, and then he’s skin-to-skin with the heat of Takeshi’s body under his fingertips, infinitely softer than any fabric, and he can hear the choke in the other’s inhale.

“ _Ah_.” Takeshi’s head tips back for a moment, the curve of his throat working on air; Hayato shoves his hands up higher, traces out the lines of the other boy’s chest, and Takeshi curls back in, as if he can’t stand to be farther than bare inches apart from the other. “No, no, it’s fine, they’ll think I’m in bed, probably.”

“No one will wonder where you are?” Hayato demands, pulling back by an inch so he can shove at the whole tangle of soft blue cloth. Takeshi’s fingers leave his skin for a moment, he ducks so Hayato can strip his shirt off, and then they’re back together, Takeshi’s hands coming out to clutch at Hayato’s shoulders and the other ducking in for another rushed kiss as if he needs it to breathe.

“No,” he answers, once Hayato can manage to stop licking against the superheated inside of his mouth, after Hayato’s hairtie has fallen to leave his wet hair tangled around his shoulders instead of pulled back into a semblance of order. “No, I’m all yours.”

There’s no coherency to the burn that surges through Hayato’s blood at the words; the best he can manage is a growl, a low rumble of satisfaction and possession and want all at once. It’s enough to urge him backwards, to send him backing across the room towards -- the bed, probably, the floor perhaps, something minimally better suited to what he wants than the vertical support of the bedroom door. Takeshi trails him, sticks so close he is still tugging at Hayato’s shirt as they go, has the clinging wet of the fabric up halfway off the other’s chest by the time Hayato backs hard into the weight of the bedframe.

“Here,” Takeshi is saying, “Let me--” but Hayato’s already moving, twisting to peel himself free at last from the shirt that’s been stuck to his skin since the skies opened on him hours before. The damp evaporates into a chill, leaves his skin pebbled and his hands shaking, but Takeshi is dropping the shirt and reaching for him again, and under the heat of his touch Hayato’s shivers melt instantly into the rush of desire.

“Come here,” he says, as if Takeshi could possibly get any closer than he already is. The other boy leans in anyway, willing enough to obey Hayato’s demand, and they both topple backwards into the soft of the bed.

“I missed you,” Takeshi says again, while they’re still trying to untangle their legs so they can move; the words end up around Hayato’s jawline, from how they landed. “I thought about you every day.” Hayato gets an arm around Takeshi’s shoulder, braces a foot against the bed and shoves, and they roll over, trading their positions so Hayato has a knee pressing between Takeshi’s.

“This is stupid,” he points out while he braces a hand at the bed over Takeshi’s shoulder, drags the other down the lines of the other’s chest. “You barely know me, how do you even know that you like me?”

“I just do,” Takeshi says. He pushes to sit up halfway, tipping his head in like he’s aiming for a kiss at Hayato’s shoulder. Hayato doesn’t bother pushing him back; he’s too busy catching his fingers into the laces at the front of Takeshi’s pants, tugging until the ties give way and he can slide the loops loose of the fabric.

“You’re crazy,” he informs him, pulling so hard at the laces he’s surprised they don’t tear entirely under the drag of his fingers. Takeshi is shuddering under him, his lips coming open and hands tensing at Hayato’s shoulders, submission written so clear across his body it’s hard for Hayato to focus on just one thing. “Every day, huh?” Takeshi’s pants are loose at his hips; Hayato’s fingers seek out the top edge, catch and push to bare the sharp curve of skin for his gaze.

“Ah,” Takeshi says, and “Yeah,” and he’s rocking up, his weight skidding and arching off the bed in an attempt to meet Hayato’s fingers. It’s too much, or would be if Hayato could tear his eyes away from the other’s face long enough to look down; as it is instead it’s rushed and hot and grinding, friction against his palm to serve as counterpoint to the melting focus in those gold eyes.

“Fair enough,” he allows, and Takeshi is hot under his hand, the line of his cock warm and slick and hard to the touch. “That makes two of us, then,” and he’s tightening his fingers, closing his hand into a hold and leaning in to swallow Takeshi’s stuttered groan of reaction over his tongue. He’s never done this before, not to someone other than himself, and he’s not sure what he’s doing -- is he gripping too tight, moving too fast, not moving enough? -- but it doesn’t seem to matter. Takeshi’s fingers are digging against the back of his neck, Takeshi’s hips coming up off the bed to rock in against Hayato’s hold, and Hayato’s movements might be quick and jerky but they seem to be effective, judging from the heat he can feel flushing under his fingers and the way Takeshi is choking over every inhale. Hayato’s pants are still clinging to his legs, his own cock pressed hard and aching against the front of the damp clothes, but he doesn’t stop or slow; it’s like he’s possessed, he’s gasping for air he can’t get for the heat of Takeshi’s mouth and stroking up faster, pressing harder, like all his motions are being urged on by the tremors of sensation rippling through Takeshi’s body. The hand half-tangled in his hair tenses, Takeshi’s fingers slipping desperately across the other’s skin, and Hayato takes a gasping inhale, ducks in closer to press his mouth to Takeshi’s bare shoulder. His teeth catch, scrape color into the tanned skin, but Takeshi is thrumming under the friction, shuddering like he’s on the verge of complete collapse. Hayato’s fingers are going slick, catching slippery against Takeshi’s length, and he moves faster, arm aching with the frantic pace of his motion and completely unwilling to stop for anything.

Then “ _Ah_ ,” Takeshi breathes, a tiny bubble of sound in the air, and Hayato can feel him jolt and shiver into pleasure underneath him. His fingers are sticky, he’s dragging up with desperate force to unwind the aftershocks of orgasm through the other boy, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel every rush of blood like electricity through his veins. He’s  _aching_ , now, the heat in his body twisting itself into a knot of pain low in his stomach, but he doesn’t let go or move to shove his own clothes off until Takeshi shifts under him. Then there’s a knee fitting between his legs, resistance tipping up to press warm against him, and Hayato makes an embarrassing broken noise and rocks in with desperate force to grind against Takeshi’s leg.

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeshi manages, and his hand is slipping down, fumbling for traction against Hayato’s chest until his fingers catch against the top edge of the other’s pants. “Hayato.”

“ _Please_ ,” Hayato gasps, feeling broken and anxious and desperate, ready to do anything at all for the touch of Takeshi’s fingers on him.

It doesn’t take more than that plea, as it turns out. Takeshi groans, the sound wide-open and shocked, and there’s friction against Hayato’s thigh, fingers sliding down under the edge of his pants to drag against rain-damp skin.

“Your clothes are wet,” Takeshi says, hesitating for a moment like he’s thinking about delaying, and Hayato snaps, growls “ _Fuck,_  just  _move_ ” before the other can offer some stupid idea like pausing to actually strip his pants off. It doesn’t feel very coherent but it doesn’t need to be; Takeshi closes his mouth and pushes his hand in sideways instead. Fingers brush against Hayato’s length, sparking tiny explosions out into his blood, and whatever whimper of reaction Takeshi makes is entirely drowned out by the full-throated groan that pours up Hayato’s throat.

“ _God_ ,” he gasps. “Takeshi,  _fuck_ ,” and his vision is sliding away, his eyes shutting of their own accord while his mouth comes open and gasping against Takeshi’s skin. Everything is warm, now, wet still clinging to his hair and the cloth against his legs but hot instead of chilled as it was, radiant like the fire between them has caught itself into reality. Hayato’s hand is at Takeshi’s waist, printing sticky patterns under his touch, and neither of them are entirely on the bed as much as collapsed over the edge and Hayato doesn’t care. He can’t breathe and he can’t think, he’s just shaking, groaning wordless encouragement against Takeshi’s shoulder and pressing bruises in the pattern of his fingertips against Takeshi’s hip. It’s like a dream, to be so near, so impossibly close Hayato would be certain of it as imagination if his mind had ever been able to manage so much detail. But it  _has_  to be reality when he can hear Takeshi’s breathing catching on anticipation, can feel the press of each of his fingers individually, and when the other boy swallows hard like he’s about to speak Hayato gasps, and jerks, and comes without a chance to give warning. The pleasure crushes him down against the bed, knocks him boneless and heavy and panting against Takeshi, and it’s not until the first several seconds of shuddering heat have passed that Hayato can blink, and inhale, and remember who he is.

“God,” he says, weak and shaky into Takeshi’s shoulder. “That.”

Takeshi hums wordlessly, turns his head. Hayato can feel the shape of a kiss sketched out against his hair. “I missed you,” he says again, an offering without a response, and Hayato laughs against his skin.

“You keep saying that.” He pushes up, the movement slow and heavy with the weight of exhaustion, blinks down at the other. Takeshi is sprawled out over the sheets, his eyes hazy and lips curved around an unthinking smile, skin flushed with heat and marked by Hayato’s teeth and fingers both.

“You look like a mess,” Hayato observes, because it’s only a little less true than  _You look amazing_  and far easier to fit words to. “You can’t go back out in the halls like this, you’ll give us away at a glance.”

Takeshi smiles wider, the warmth of the expression melting his eyes into caramel. “I don’t have to go back out at all, if you don’t want me to.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hayato insists, punctuating with a shove at Takeshi’s shoulder as the best way to convince himself to slide back off the bed so he can untangle the half-done lacing at the front of his pants and struggle out of them. “You have to be seen in public eventually.”

“Not tonight,” Takeshi says, sitting up without getting to his feet. Even his shoulders look different, now, slanting into a tipsy angle like he can’t remember how to sit up straight. “Are you going to use the bath?”

“It’s what I had planned, before you interrupted me,” Hayato growls, kicking his pants aside and trying to not be self-conscious about his lack of clothing; it’s a little late for that now, he supposes. “And I  _really_  need it now.” He lets his gaze slide over Takeshi’s skin, the damp print of lips at his shoulder and the sticky mess drying shiny at his stomach and the edge of his hip. “You do too.”

Hayato turns away, starts moving towards the bath on the far side of the room without looking back when he speaks. “That’s an invitation, you know.”

He can hear Takeshi’s laugh of delight in advance of the sound of feet hitting the floor and coming up behind him, catching up to his deliberately slow pace before he’s made it to the edge of the tub and the steam still rising off the water in it. He doesn’t turn around then, or when fingers come out to brush against his waist, or when there’s the motion of lips touching against the damp chill of his hair, but he’s smiling without needing to look back, all the tension of anxiety stripped from him by the other boy instead of by the heat of the water.

It feels nice to finally relax.


	9. Smiling

It’s remarkable how much different one night makes to Hayato’s mood. When he first came into the room that will be his for the next week it seemed overlarge, empty and cold and too loud with the sound of the rain dripping off the eaves overhanging the window. When he wakes up the next morning, everything has changed; the rain sounds soothing, now, the rumpled sheets speak to a better night’s rest than he’s had in days, and all his hopelessness of the night before is gone, replaced with tingling anticipation for the day.

There’s the faint outline of another person’s body on the other side of the bed, the sheets long since gone cold since Takeshi’s departure in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, but it still makes Hayato smile to see, only barely resisting the urge to reach out and press his fingers to the evidence of the other’s presence. He doesn’t have the time anyway; there’s breakfast to attend, the first full formal meal since their arrival, and that means he has to dress for the occasion.

It takes longer than he expects. He has plenty of formal clothing with him, of course, but he keeps forgetting pieces, gets distracted by the smile he catches in his reflection or the memory of fingers dragging against the back of his neck. In the end he leaves his hair down completely, just brushes it into smooth silver over his shoulders, and spends the next ten minutes trying to pull his expression into neutrality with the help of the mirror. He’s not completely sure he’s succeeded, by the time a tap on the door indicates his summons to breakfast, but it’s the best he can do. He’ll just need to avoid the danger of eye contact as much as possible.

His plan falls to pieces as soon as he sets foot in the dining room. The royal family is already there, arranged around the head of the otherwise-empty table, and no sooner has Hayato stepped through the door than Takeshi’s head is coming up, dawn-bright eyes are catching his, and all his blood goes instantly to steam.

“Prince Hayato,” someone is saying -- the king, Hayato thinks, though he’s having trouble looking to confirm. The sound of a chair dragging over the floor, the rustle of heavy fabric, and Takeshi ducks his head to hide a too-wide smile and sets Hayato free to look at the ruler instead of his son. He looks remarkably like Takeshi himself, if older and with sterner lines to his face; his smile doesn’t touch more than the corners of his eyes, when he steps forward to meet Hayato.

“We are honored by your presence,” he says, his smile polite and distant and inscrutable, and Hayato does what he is supposed to do, which is offer a precisely measured bow and recite back a variant of the statement.

“Certainly not, your highness,” he says without looking up, though he imagines he can feel Takeshi’s eyes on him, wants to snap at the other boy to be more  _subtle_. “I am grateful for the opportunity to visit.”

“I understand you were responsible for my son during his travel,” the king is saying as Hayato straightens. “He has spoken of nothing but your generosity since his return.”

“Uh,” Hayato says stupidly, knocked briefly incoherent by the stunning stretch of the truth that has turned his irritable comments into generosity and also, unexpectedly, by the memory of embroidered silk under his fingers, the breathless gasp of half-heard promises outside the door of a dining room. His cheeks glow hot of their own accord, flashing into heat he can’t hope to hide, and the best he can struggle to is, “I’m afraid his good nature has overstated my charms, your highness.”

“I trust you won’t mind him returning the favor,” another, softer voice comes. When Hayato looks back at the table the queen is offering him a similarly polite smile, her head tipped slightly to the side as if in inquiry. Were it not for the boundary of the smile on her face, the formal distance in her eyes, she would look very like her son. “He assures us he has more than enough to keep you occupied during the course of your visit.”

Hayato takes a long inhale through his nose, fights back the bubble of hysterical laughter at the back of his throat. He is completely certain, now, that Takeshi is staring at him, knows that if they make eye contact they will utterly destroy any hope of continued secrecy.

“I’m sure he does,” Hayato finally manages, sounding only faintly strained, and then he’s saved by the sound of the door opening and the entrance of a pair of the other delegation members. He offers the king another bow, the queen a nod, and when Takeshi chirps, “Hayato, here!” and waves at him he comes around the corner of the table to sit next to him while avoiding looking at anything other than the motion of Takeshi’s hand or the line of his shoulder, sketching out the shape of the other without quite looking at him directly.

“Don’t  _speak_  to me,” he hisses in an undertone while the rest of the group is in the midst of introductions and formal welcome. “Are you trying to keep this subtle at  _all_?”

“I am,” Takeshi says back, his voice purring over the low tone he’s trying to adopt. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He shifts in his seat, tips sideways like he can’t manage to sit still, and for just a moment his shoulder is pressing hard against Hayato’s arm. Hayato has to shut his mouth hard on the whimper of response he wants to make, reach with more aggression than is necessary for the jam, and when Takeshi giggles he swings his leg wide under the table to shove his knee hard against the other’s.

That he doesn’t move away again, that Takeshi keeps offering inane comments until Hayato has to glare at him while fighting back a smile, that Takeshi’s entire face is lit up like he’s glowing from the inside -- Hayato tries not to think about that, at least not while they’re at the table in front of other people. All they have left is to hope no one is paying them any real attention; he suspects they’re both being painfully obvious, regardless of how hard he attempts to cling to calm.

He finds it’s easier to hope in the glow of the smile in Takeshi’s eyes.


	10. Subtlety

By the time Takeshi joins him in the privacy of Hayato’s guest quarters that night, Hayato has had  _hours_  to think about what he wants to do.

“I thought you’d never get here,” is what he says when they’re still up against the door, a flurry of desperate kissing that he suspects will become more habitual than he originally expected. “I don’t know if I can stand to be around you when we’re out in public.”

“I told you were could have kissed,” Takeshi says, his lips moving warm at Hayato’s hairline. Hayato shivers, slides his fingers just under the top edge of Takeshi’s pants, uses the hold as a guide to steer the other boy around and back him up across the room. Takeshi goes with perfect obedience, his feet moving to Hayato’s urging while his fingers lace into the other’s hair. “No one would have seen us, no one ever comes into that part of the library.”

“By that logic I should have just unfastened your pants and taken you right there,” Hayato growls. He intends it as absurdity, an argument  _against_  the temptation Takeshi has been offering him all day, but Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter and he sits down so hard on the bed Hayato has to wonder if his knees just gave out under him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, a shocked starstruck noise, and Hayato has to lean in closer to him, press his knee in against Takeshi’s hip and curl his fingers in against the other’s shirt.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a  _suggestion_ ,” he says, but he’s grinning, feeling hot and radiant and powerful, with Takeshi’s eyes fixed on him wide and hazed out of all focus. He fits his free hand against the front of the other boy’s pants, shifts to feel out the hot-flushed shape of him through the fabric, and then presses down, grinding friction so Takeshi’s forehead creases in what looks almost like pain before Hayato speaks.

“You really would let me, wouldn’t you?” Hayato’s leaning in, close enough that it should jeopardize their balance, but Takeshi isn’t pulling away, just tips his head up and opens his eyes wide to gaze at Hayato’s face like he’s trying to memorize his features. Hayato’s breathing hard, the heat in his blood from the too-long day sticking his throat tight on every inhale, but he can’t clear the amused delight off his expression, doesn’t yet want to pull away to strip off some of his own layers of clothing. “If I just pushed you up against the shelves and started undoing your pants, what would you let me do to you?”

Takeshi’s eyelashes shift, his head tips back farther; Hayato can see the motion in his throat, the convulsive swallow of an answer before he says, “Anything, I think.”

“You’d let me jerk you off?” A nod, quick and rushed, and Hayato had known the answer to that already. “What if I used my mouth instead, could I do that?” A whimper, this time, that crease in his forehead settling in in time with the heat-hazed catch of Takeshi’s breathing, and Hayato’s burning, now, he’s manic with the warm in his veins and anxious from the exertion of all-day patience.

“Would you let me fuck you?” he demands, the question borne more on the heat-fogged images of his imagination than any thought. His cheeks crest hot as soon as he hears the words, his motions stalling into self-consciousness because all they’ve done is kiss a few desperate times and jerked each other off once and the words taste intimate and too-hot on his lips. But Takeshi’s eyes are shutting before he can decide if he wants to apologize, Takeshi’s groaning the lowest purring sound Hayato has ever heard from him, and when he says, “ _Yes_ ” it somehow manages to carry as much desire as all Hayato’s words have ever had.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, because he doesn’t have enough hands, he is barely keeping his balance as it is and he suddenly needs to be out of all his clothes  _immediately_. Takeshi is grabbing at his wrist, holding his palm steady while he rocks up against it, and that’s good, that’s  _great_  but Hayato wants to feel his skin, wants to push him down over the sheets and press them in against each other.

So “Hang on,” he says, and he’s pushing away and pulling his hand free, looking away from the reach of Takeshi’s fingers or he never will get his clothes off. Even with his attention where he needs it, his movements are more desperate than graceful; his shirt catches on his wrist, he has to fumble for what feels like long seconds with the front of his pants, but either he’s faster than he felt he was or Takeshi is even slower, because by the time Hayato is kicking his pants free of his ankles Takeshi is only just pushing his down off his hips.

Hayato growls at the sight, something wordless and appreciative, and he moves in as Takeshi looks up, dropping to his knees against the bed so he can wrap an arm around Takeshi’s bare waist, slide himself around to press against the dip of the other boy’s back and fit his mouth to his shoulder.

“Get your damn clothes off,” he says, teeth scraping with every word. He can feel Takeshi’s shudder under the support of his arm, the full-body quiver of response vibrating into him secondhand, and he makes a low sound of appreciation and bites against the shoulder at his lips. Takeshi chokes surprise, falls backwards against him, and Hayato would protest but the other is pushing his pants down his legs and there’s enough bare skin to satisfy for now.

“Here.” He grabs at Takeshi’s hip as the last of their clothes come free, urges the other back over the sheets, until when he drags them both sideways they land pressed together, Hayato’s chest flush with Takeshi’s spine and his cock dragging against hot skin. The friction feels good, even incidental as it is; Hayato briefly considers pushing Takeshi down against the bed, pressing hard against the other’s hip and just grinding himself to satisfaction. But he can hear how hard Takeshi is breathing, and he’d rather wait for reciprocation, so he swallows back the urge and reaches instead to fit his fingers against Takeshi’s cock.

“You’re so  _warm_ ,” he says, not sure if he’s talking about Takeshi’s back or the hard heat of his cock and not sure it matters. Takeshi hums wordless acknowledgment, one hand trailing up along the line of Hayato’s wrist to his elbow, and Hayato tightens his hold and jerks up in one easy stroke.

It’s easier like this, the angle more familiar and the position not requiring contortions of balance. Hayato just has the shocking heat of skin pressed against his, the occasional friction of Takeshi rocking back against him and the sound of the other’s breathing, the shudders of response to his movement nearly close enough to be confused with his own. It feels good, satisfying in the back of his thoughts and against his tongue even though his cock is still aching for more, so he doesn’t even try to shift his angle, just presses his mouth in to breathe hard at the submissive line of Takeshi’s throat while he stroke up over the other boy in long, easy motions.

“What if we just stay in here?” he says against Takeshi’s hair, spreads his fingers wide and bracing at the flutter across the other boy’s stomach. He can just see the other’s eyes if he looks up through his hair, the shift of ink-dark lashes and gold eyes hazy and unfocused like his attention is elsewhere. Hayato has a good idea where all that focus is, tightens his grip and presses his thumb in against the slick collecting at the head of Takeshi’s cock, and when there’s a groan and an arch in the other’s back he knows he’s right.

“We could lock the door,” he says, opening his mouth wider so his teeth scrape at Takeshi’s shoulders, up high where he has to be careful to not leave a mark. “I could keep you all night, we wouldn’t even stop to sleep.”

“Hh,” Takeshi gasps. “ _Hayato_.”

“Wouldn’t even bother with clothes,” Hayato muses, drags the slick pre-come at his thumb down along Takeshi’s length to smooth his strokes. He can feel the flush of responsive heat, the twitch of reaction in the shape under his hand, and he’s breathing harder in time, dragging Takeshi back like they can somehow get closer than they already are. “I’ll just keep you here like this, how does that sound.”

“Good,” Takeshi says, and he’s starting to tremble, Hayato can feel the involuntary vibration rippling up his spine where they’re pressed together.

“You’re not even listening,” Hayato growls, twisting his hand to pull another wordless groan out of Takeshi’s throat.

“No,” Takeshi says, “No, I am, it’s good, yeah.”

“You fucking liar,” Hayato purrs, slides his hand up over Takeshi’s cock and spreads his hand wide and bracing to hold the other boy steady as he gasps himself into orgasm. Hayato shuts his eyes as Takeshi shudders, lets the sensation of the other boy’s pleasure spark hot in his own veins, and by the time Takeshi has gone warm and boneless from the aftershocks Hayato is panting for air against the other’s shoulder. He doesn’t try to keep his hold when Takeshi takes a breath and rolls sideways to face him, just lets his hands go and draws his mouth back from the other’s shoulder, and when Takeshi pushes at his hip he’s more than content to roll over onto his back on the bed.

He doesn’t expect anything other than fingers stroking up over him, is ready to do it himself if Takeshi wastes any time about it, but then the other slides down over the sheets, the heat of his breathless inhales trailing down against Hayato’s chest, and his movement gives away his intention well before his mouth is anywhere near the other’s hips.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Hayato asks, pushing himself up on an elbow so he can watch Takeshi’s shoulders shift as he fits himself between the other’s spread-open knees.

“Not at all,” the other admits without a moment’s hesitation.

“So you’re going to be really terrible,” Hayato clarifies, trying to cover the tremor of anticipation in his throat with a growl. He’s not completely sure he succeeds at this, particularly when Takeshi glances up at him with his mouth half-open like he can’t catch his breath. The smile that breaks over his face shoots through Hayato like sunlight, warms the drifting glow of Takeshi’s eyes, and when he agrees “Probably” Hayato can’t even muster a retort.

“Yeah,” is what he says instead, “Okay.” He has no idea what expression he’s making but he can see Takeshi’s, can see the brief flutter of his eyelashes and the way his throat works on a swallow. Then the other is ducking his head, Hayato can see his lips part in anticipation, and then Takeshi’s tongue is on him, slipping hot and slick against his cock, and he’s sitting up in a rush, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Takeshi’s hair and hold him where he is while he groans involuntary loud on his exhale.

“ _Fuck_.” It’s hot, there’s more heat than he expected and a ticklish not-quite friction, the burn of it lancing up his spine and tensing his shoulder. “Do that again.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, open-mouthed agreement, shifts his weight back so he can free a hand to close against the base of Hayato’s cock. His fingers are warm too, the friction pleasant but not-enough, but then he’s licking again, a slow drag of his tongue like he’s trying to suck Hayato clean of the sticky spill against the head of his cock, and Hayato’s shaking, his knees trembling against the sheets until he can’t try to hold them still.

“Oh fuck,” he says, and he’s pushing up off the bed, or dragging Takeshi down, he’s not sure which, just that he wants more, more friction and more pressure and more of that teasing heat. “Keep going, Takeshi.”

Takeshi does. His head is tipped down so Hayato can’t see his eyes, but his shoulders look relaxed, his motions are easy and unhurried like he has no goal at all. Hayato’s breathing harder, his shoulders tensing in to match the curve of his spine, and he wants Takeshi’s fingers to move in familiar friction or more, a  _lot_  more, of the novel experience of the other’s mouth. He’s reaching for some kind of words, a plea or a request or a command he’s not sure which, when Takeshi draws back, and takes a deep breath, and comes back in, and in the first burst of heat Hayato can’t even think past the different pieces of sensation. There’s warmth, definitely, movement and maybe suction and a rough edge that’s a little too close to pain, and the wet slick of saliva all against him, but mostly it’s  _enough_ , hot and wet and satisfying until he’s all but collapsing in, has to throw a hand out to brace against Takeshi’s shoulders and gasp a desperate breath. Takeshi moves, does something with his mouth or maybe just slides his hand an inch, and Hayato can feel the convulsion ripple all along his spine, starting low at his hips and snapping out under his skin until he’s groaning raw heat against the top of Takeshi’s head as he feels himself pulse into orgasm. Takeshi makes a sharp startled sound, starts to pull back, but the motion itself is just more friction and they’re too tangled up for him to move back very far. Hayato can’t get his hand free of the other’s hair, can’t stop the shivering jolts of pleasure in him; it’s not until the first wave has passed to leave him trembling and radiant with heat that he can uncurl his spine and untangle his fingers from Takeshi’s hair.

“Fuck,” he says, sounding shaky and worn-out. Takeshi pulls away, sits back up over his heels; his mouth is slick, there’s come spilled against his lips and smeared over his cheek before he lifts a hand to wipe it clean. “Shit, sorry.”

Takeshi blinks up at him, his hand at his mouth; Hayato can see his smile in the corners of his eyes, even with the cover in front of his lips.

“Don’t apologize,” he suggests, licks the back of his hand clean. Hayato’s gaze drops to the motion, his blood flaring hot for a moment in spite of the aftershocks of satisfaction still weighing him down; he’s still staring, a frown collecting at his mouth, when Takeshi laughs and leans in to kiss the corner of his lips. His skin is sticky to the touch. “Was it good?”

“Idiot,” Hayato says, reaches up to grab at the back of Takeshi’s neck as he tries to pull away. “Be more careful with your teeth next time.”

Takeshi’s hand comes out to his waist, skims against the curve to settle at his hip. “Okay,” he agrees, easy with compliance, and Hayato can’t help but smile as he turns his head in towards Takeshi’s damp mouth.

“And kiss me again,” he says, sure of obedience before he forms the words. Takeshi huffs amusement against his skin, tips his head up for the requested contact, and when Hayato drops back against the bed Takeshi topples to land right next to him, parts his lips for more without needing to be told.

They might need to keep their distance during the day, but Hayato is going to make the most of the nights.


	11. Today

“I wonder how the discussions are going,” Takeshi says without any warning at all.

Hayato  _had_  been enjoying the day. The sun’s out for the first time in the three days since his arrival, giving he and Takeshi the excuse to get out of the confines of the castle and at a somewhat more reasonable distance from the everpresent eyes of the servants. But whatever warmth the sunlight has granted him evaporates with Takeshi’s words like a cloud has dropped around him, and when he speaks it’s with a growl he doesn’t even bother turning around to aim.

“ _I_  don’t.”

By rights it should be enough to stop the conversation, that rumble of a threat in the back of his throat warning enough for anyone to pick up on. But Takeshi isn’t anyone, as Hayato often appreciates and as often forgets, and instead of falling silent or changing the topic he keeps pressing forward, his voice too near Hayato’s shoulder for the other to pretend he doesn’t hear.

“Don’t you think it’s important?” Movement at his side, the brush of fingertips at his wrist like Takeshi is thinking about taking his hand in spite of Hayato’s continued rebuffs when they’re not behind the locked door of his room. “They didn’t go well on my visit, did they? We could be enemies when we see each other next.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Hayato snaps, the words lacing violent over his tongue, and he turns so sharply Takeshi doesn’t have time to pull away from him. His hands catch against the other’s coat, crumple the fabric into fists, but it’s not a kiss but a vicious shake he gives this time. “Shut up, shut  _up_.”

“Ah,” Takeshi gasps, stumbling and nearly falling from the motion. His hand comes out to catch himself at Hayato’s shoulder, clings for a moment before he remembers to pull the touch away. “Hayato?”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Hayato says without letting go or looking up at Takeshi’s face. “I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to  _think_  about it.” He tips in closer, breathes in deep; he can taste rain in the air, can smell the faint soap-clean smell of Takeshi’s skin.

“Listen,” he says after a moment, when the rush of panic in his veins has steadied out and he can trust his voice to not quake itself into incoherence. “I’m here now. Okay?” One of his hands slides loose, presses against the warm of Takeshi’s jacket. Hayato can feel the catch of the other boy taking a startled inhale, the movement of breath under his fingers. “We have tonight, and that’s as far as I want to think about.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of strain Hayato can feel sticking at the back of his throat and shadowing over all his thoughts. He can see the storm on the horizon, still a few days off but closer than he wants it, closer than he wants to even consider, like if he looks over his shoulder the hurt to come will strip away all the pleasure of the moment.

Then there’s warmth at the top of his head, Takeshi humming a note of agreement, and something wild and anxious in Hayato soothes and settles. A hand bumps his hip, fingers dragging against the heavy weight of the fabric, and Hayato knows there’s no subtlety between them right now, with his forehead all but pressed against Takeshi’s shoulder and Takeshi’s hands hovering just shy of contact with his hips. He doesn’t care, for this moment; there’s no war negotiations, no impending departure, nothing but the apple-crisp clean of soap and the heat of Takeshi’s body warming his fingers.

“Is anyone watching?” he asks without looking up.

“I don’t know,” Takeshi answers without hesitation. “I can’t see the windows.”

“Say  _no_ , Takeshi,” Hayato grates. “Is anyone watching?”

“No,” Takeshi says.

“Good,” Hayato growls, and pushes his hand up to brace at the back of Takeshi’s neck, and turns his head up to crush his mouth to the other boy’s. Takeshi makes a tiny choked-off sound, surprise and heat spilling together on his tongue, and when Hayato presses against his lips he open them to let the other boy lick the taste of the shock off his tongue. Hayato can feel his pulse thudding at the back of his thoughts, his hands trembling at Takeshi’s coat and against the soft strands of hair at the back of the other’s neck, but mostly he’s warm, the heat of Takeshi’s lips flush against his more than enough to burn away his personal shadows into inconsequence.

For today, he has sunlight.


	12. Warm

Takeshi always seems warmer at night.

He’s always glowing, Hayato has learned, radiating a heat that makes Hayato feel sun-warmed even when there’s nothing outside but the downpour of the near-constant rain. When Takeshi leans in to bump his shoulder at Hayato’s, or brush his fingers maybe-accidentally against the other’s wrist, Hayato can feel it like a jolt, warmth spilling directly into his blood until it takes all his self-control to not flinch away or curl in around it so he can absorb it all straight into his skin. But he’s hotter at night, burning up before Hayato even gets his clothes off, until by the time he has fingers pressed to gold-tanned skin it feels like fire prickling over his fingertips.

It makes it hard to keep his mind on what he’s doing. Hard enough to have Takeshi breathless and trembling under him, with the laces of his pants only half-done and his shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor en route to the bed; worse still to have his hands caught by the magnetism of that warmth, until Hayato has to struggle to move them down even in the excellent pursuit of getting Takeshi’s pants off.

“How are you always so  _warm_ ,” he growls, the words grating into irritation as he forces his hands down Takeshi’s waist to curl in around the fabric at his hips. “It’s not fair, aren’t you ever cold at all?”

“Mm,” Takeshi says, sounding dazed and not completely aware of where he is. His hands are up under Hayato’s loose shirt, fingers trailing up against the other’s waist and around to his back, and that’s distracting too but Hayato isn’t about to tell him to stop. “Not usually.” His smile is overbright, too big and too warm for the room, summer come months too early to the backdrop of rain out the window. “Are you cold?”

“Not right now,” Hayato says, and drags at Takeshi’s pants. They obey his pull, slipping off hips that are becoming familiar to the touch to bare the whole of Takeshi’s too-long legs. Takeshi makes a faint noise of protest as Hayato draws back to pull his clothes free, clings to the edge of his shirt to urge him back in as the pants hit the floor; it makes Hayato grin, pleasure startled out of him to spread across his face, and he returns, fits himself between the invitation of Takeshi’s open legs while he pulls at the bottom edge of his shirt. The fabric twists up, catches at his hair and pulls over his head, and by the time Hayato is shaking his hair back to see again Takeshi is rocking up on an elbow, reaching out to loop an arm around him back and press his face in against Hayato’s chest.

“Get off me,” Hayato says with no fire at all in his voice. It’s hard to muster irritation around the smile at his lips, hard even to find the strength to push Takeshi off. When he tries his fingers stall on the other’s shoulder, the intended shove turning into a caress instead, and Takeshi sits up the rest of the way, presses himself in against Hayato’s bare skin and sighs like he never plans to move again.

“Get off,” Hayato says again, biting back the laugh that’s trying to push up his throat. He gets his hand in around Takeshi’s shoulder, pushes him off by force to shove him back down to the bed. Any anger Hayato might have mustered fails him in the face of Takeshi’s melting-warm gaze, the smile caught soft and unconscious at his mouth, and he’s the one who leans in this time, keeps holding Takeshi down to the sheets while he turns his head to fit their mouths in together. Takeshi’s lips are warm under his, as they ever are, and for a moment Hayato loses track of what they’re doing, where they are, everything around him except the immediate aching heat of Takeshi’s body under him and Takeshi’s mouth at his.

“Fuck,” he says, or tries to say; the sound gets lost at Takeshi’s lips, Hayato has to pull back before he can make himself heard. “Okay, okay, just. Stay still.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, dazed and compliant. When Hayato leans back Takeshi stays where he is, spilling languid and smiling over the bed. Hayato has to make himself look away before he gets caught by the soft of Takeshi’s mouth again, has to angle himself sideways so he can reach out for the bottle of oil Takeshi brought with him when he knocked on the door tonight. Then he has the excuse of looking at the bottle, at his hands, at the slick spill of air-cool liquid over his fingertips to distract him from the constant temptation of Takeshi’s skin, hip, collarbone, all the lines of his body begging for lips and teeth and hands to push over them until they flush pink with heat. It works for a minute, long enough to stopper the bottle again and toss it to the far edge of the bed; then he’s looking back down again, gold skin and soft eyes waiting for him, and he realizes his hands are starting to shake.

“Fuck,” he says, grabs at the inside of Takeshi’s knee with more force than is necessary to cover the involuntary shiver under his skin. “Fuck, okay, you’ll need to relax.”

“I’m fine,” Takeshi says, and the worst of it is that he  _sounds_  fine, sounds steady and calm and like he’s missing all the anxious nerves Hayato can feel prickling up along his spine, like he’s not afraid of Hayato accidentally hurting him at all. “Really, I promise.”

“Sure,” Hayato scoffs, but he’s shaking worse, now, he has to tighten his fingers against Takeshi’s skin to hold himself steady. Adrenaline is humming through him, equal parts anticipation and terror, and there’s no way he can do this, no way he can reach out to press his slick fingers inside the heat of Takeshi’s body. But Takeshi’s watching him, his eyes glazed over like he’s looking forward to this, like he  _wants_  it, and Hayato’s whole body shivers with a chill that has nothing to do with cold.

“God,” he says, and his voice is shaking, there’s nothing he can do about it. “Tell me if I hurt you,” and he’s reaching, he’s doing it, there are slick fingers dragging over hot skin. Takeshi jerks at the first touch, gasps air like Hayato’s even done anything yet, but before Hayato can snatch his hand back or snap something abrupt and harsh he’s moving instead, pushing his hand up over his hip and closing his fingers around his cock. Hayato’s mouth drops open, his throat works hard on some choking sound of approval, and his movement stalls completely for a moment so he can watch Takeshi’s fingers drag up over himself. It’s a completely different experience, watching the other boy’s hold tighten and slide, purrs something hot and satisfied into Hayato’s blood to know that the tremor in Takeshi’s thighs is his own doing, like he can’t possibly wait for Hayato’s touch on him.

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, and Hayato looks up in a rush, feels himself flushing darker as he realizes he was staring. Takeshi is watching him, too, his eyelashes heavy against the glow of his eyes and mouth half-open like he can’t catch a breath, and something in Hayato twists hot and anxious and wanting. “Hayato, keep going.”

Hayato doesn’t trust himself to speak. There’s tension in his throat, wanting and fright and excitement all tangled together and he’s not sure if he will moan or whimper if he opens his mouth. So he doesn’t, keeps his lips pressed tight together, and when he looks back down it’s to watch the drag of his fingers across Takeshi’s thigh to fit in against the other boy’s entrance. There’s a moment of hesitation, panic winning out for a breath; then Takeshi says, “ _Please_ ,” with the word melting off his lips, and Hayato pushes in against him.

It happens all at once. One moment Hayato’s pushing, fingers slick against Takeshi’s skin and heart skidding out in his chest; then there’s a give in the resistance, heat pressing around him, and his finger is slipping inside the other boy. Takeshi lets out a breath, a gust of startled air, and Hayato groans as all his panic flares instantly into heat.

“Oh my  _god_ , Takeshi,” and he’s pushing in deeper, Takeshi is shuddering under him and he can feel every ripple of reaction tighten around him. “Fuck,  _fuck_ , you’re so  _hot_.”

Takeshi whimpers, arches a little ways off the bed before dropping his weight back down. His hand is still moving, slow, easy strokes up over his cock; when Hayato looks up Takeshi’s eyes are shut, his mouth open and forehead creased like he’s concentrating on breathing.

“God,” Hayato says, draws his hand back slowly so he can push back in. There’s electricity prickling down his spine, jolting out into his blood until he can barely keep his hands steady, until he thinks he might still be shaking helplessly under the force of adrenaline. He wonders briefly if Takeshi can tell, if Takeshi can feel his reaction through their point of contact. “ _God_ , Takeshi,  _fuck_.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and Hayato can feel the tension draining out of him, can feel the way the other boy is relaxing against him. His knees come wider, the angle of his legs forming an invitation, and Hayato rocks in closer, until he has a knee pressed in under Takeshi’s leg and the texture of his pants is flush against the other’s bare skin. He’s pushing against Takeshi’s knee, doesn’t even think about the force; all his attention is focused on his fingertips, the slick motion of his hand getting easier with every thrust.

“You’re going to feel so good,” Hayato says, and he draws his hand back, tries to fit two fingers in instead of one. Takeshi barely shivers, this time, just a momentary flicker of tension before he relaxes back to the bed, and his hand is moving faster. “Fuck, Takeshi, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Hayato’s pressing in deeper, as far as he can reach, dragging his fingers in against Takeshi like he’s trying to leave his fingerprints there, and Takeshi shudders and groans and opens his eyes to watch him. He looks melted, overheated and flushed all across his cheekbones, tension bleeding out of him until there’s just the motion of his hand up over himself to speak to his continued awareness, and Hayato’s winding tighter in opposition, going harder against Takeshi’s leg and pushing his fingers in faster, deeper, and Takeshi is looking more dazed with every motion.

“You’re so warm,” Hayato says again, his brain stuck on some sort of repeating loop, and he angles his fingers out wider, presses Takeshi open with slick fingers. Takeshi whines in the back of his throat, eyelashes fluttering in incoherent response, and Hayato’s tension is spiking unbearably, he’s going to shatter himself apart if he waits much longer. But Takeshi is moving fast, now, Hayato can see the slick collecting into a shine at the head of his cock, and that’s got to be a good sign, as much encouragement as the way Takeshi looks like he can’t quite keep his eyes open, like he can’t keep himself from just melting warm and shaky over the bed. Hayato takes a breath, and opens his mouth, and when he says, “Can I?” it’s without thinking. He’s drawing his hand back before he gets an answer, expectant of the permission he knows Takeshi will give, until by the time the other boy collects himself enough to jerk his head in a breathless nod Hayato has his pants half-unfastened already.

“Tell me,” he says again, trying to cling to the edge of coherency when his hands are shaking and his entire body is drawing taut with anticipation. “If I’m hurting you you have to tell me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, “Okay” but he’s reaching out with his free hand, dragging fingers against Hayato’s hip like he’s trying to pull him down. When Hayato looks up Takeshi is watching his fingers on the laces of his pants, his mouth open and soft with want, and Hayato’s sure he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Fuck,” and the pants come loose, he drags them open and down enough that he can work himself free. He gets his hand back under Takeshi’s knee, pushes the other’s leg up and wide this time, and Takeshi lets him, goes pliant and easy under Hayato’s push. When Hayato looks up Takeshi’s watching his hips, eyes tracking the motion of his cock as he fits himself in closer, and there’s something so shockingly hot in his eyes that Hayato can feel it like a touch trailing all the way up the length of his spine.

“Okay,” he says, and pushes Takeshi’s leg up, reaches out to brace himself on the bed, and starts to thrust into the other boy.

It’s a tighter fit than his fingers were, even two at once, even spread apart. Takeshi’s back arches against the mattress, his head tilting back as he makes a weird whimper of what sounds alarmingly like pain, but Hayato is groaning too, has to stop because for a moment it’s too much, heat and tension all around him whiting out his vision and his awareness of where he is. He pauses, blinks, blinks again, and then Takeshi comes back into focus, that initial burst of reaction easing out of him to let him fall back to the sheets.

“God,” Hayato says, and “Are you okay?”

Takeshi nods, quick and fast and certain, fits his hand in against Hayato’s back like he’s trying to pull him in closer. “More,” he says, his voice sounding tense and strained, but his eyes are dragging against Hayato’s face and his mouth is open like he’s begging for a kiss, and there’s no way Hayato can possibly say no.

“Yeah,” is what he offers, meaningless agreement, and moves to push in deeper. His thoughts white out again, all his attention fraying into heat and friction and satisfaction so sharp it’s almost painful. Takeshi’s hand skids up his back, fingertips digging in against his shoulder, and when Hayato blinks again Takeshi’s face is close enough to kiss, close enough that he can see the individual dark lashes against his closed eyes.

“Shit,” he says, his voice shaking all up his throat. “Takeshi?”

Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes coming into some vague focus at Hayato’s features. He opens his mouth, like maybe he’s thinking about speaking, and Hayato shifts his hips, and slides in deeper, and what comes out of Takeshi’s mouth instead of words is a little choking moan. It’s too much, Hayato can’t even think straight; he just leans in instead, presses his skin flush against Takeshi’s and fits his mouth to the other’s, and when he moves again he can taste Takeshi’s reaction against his tongue. Takeshi pulls his hand free, untangles it from under Hayato’s arm, and then there are fingers at Hayato’s neck, lacing up into his hair to hold him steady, and when Takeshi arches his back Hayato can feel the motion all around him.

It takes Hayato a minute to find the right rhythm for his movement. It’s a strange angle, not one he’s used to from any of what they’ve done before, and it’s hard to pay attention to what he’s doing when his brain tries to short-circuit every time he moves or Takeshi gasps. But then he manages a stroke slow enough that he can maintain some level of rationality, tries another at that pace, and when Takeshi sighs heat against his mouth he takes it as encouragement. Takeshi’s shifting his hand, too, slowing his movements to match Hayato’s, until Hayato feels a little like they’re dancing, like they’re falling so closely into sync their breathing is adjusting to match. Everything is hot, his skin is burning and Takeshi is radiant under and around him, until when he thrusts in deeper than he intended the way Takeshi shudders feels like he’s trying to combust underneath Hayato.

“Takeshi,” Hayato says, not sure if he’s asking or saying, and Takeshi is whining but it’s more pleading than it is protest. Hayato moves again, comes as far forward as he can, and Takeshi jerks and groans and it  _is_  pleasure, Hayato can see it in the way the other’s eyes go hazy and out-of-focus.

“Does it feel good?” he asks unnecessarily, doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes Takeshi’s leg up higher, thrusts in a little faster, and Takeshi’s hand slips, his throat gives up a gasping, anxious inhale like he’s standing on a precipice. Hayato isn’t sure what he’s doing, is sure that Takeshi likes it, so he keeps going, lets the heat rush into him as he moves faster to drive the last shred of coherency clear of Takeshi’s eyes. Takeshi’s mouth is open, he’s quivering like a struck bell, and Hayato can’t stop staring, can’t remember how to blink for watching ripples of heat chase each other over Takeshi’s features; then he drives forward, a quick burst of movement, and Takeshi jerks and moans and comes all at once, sticky heat spilling between the too-close press of their skin.

“Hayato,” he gasps while he’s still stroking over himself, while Hayato can see feel the shivers of reaction drawing him tight around him. “Hayato, Hayato.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. “Fuck.” He leans in, shoves his head in against Takeshi’s shoulder to hide the uncontrolled expression on his face, and when he starts to move it’s rough and fast and rushed. He can feel tension climbing up his shoulders, winding into his fingers until he’s digging too-hard at Takeshi’s hip and clinging to the blankets like a cliff face, but Takeshi’s still gasping for air, shuddering weird whimpering response with every thrust of Hayato’s hips, and it’s too much, the heat and the friction and the sound, and Hayato chokes out some unintelligible endearment as all his tension gives way at once. There’s a stutter to his motions, intent giving way to unthought instinct to push him through the last few thrusts, and then he goes still and breathless and shaky against the heat of Takeshi under him. For a moment all he can see is white, all he can feel is trembling satisfaction, like he’s become a slow-motion explosion caught inside his body.

“God,” he manages when he can take a breath, when he can remember how words work and how to use his throat. “Takeshi.”

“ _Hayato_ ,” Takeshi whimpers, sounding a little bit shattered and a little bit lost. When Hayato blinks down at him the other boy’s eyes are shadowed under his lashes, his lips parted and soft and pleading. There’s a tug against Hayato’s neck, gentle friction turning into a wordless urging, and he gives in without hesitation, collapses in against the sweat-slick of Takeshi’s skin and presses his mouth to the sigh of satisfaction on Takeshi’s lips. His hand comes up into soft-ruffled hair, presses steadiness back into Takeshi’s humming pleasure, and when Hayato laughs he doesn’t recognize his own voice for how soft and pleased he sounds.

He likes the way contentment feels in his veins.


	13. Indulgence

It starts to rain when they’re on the outskirts of the palace grounds.

“Oh,” Takeshi says, tipping his head up to blink surprise at the grey overhead that finally decided to open up on them. “We’re going to be wet by the time we make it back.”

“It’s not that bad,” Hayato declares, barely glancing back over his shoulder at the other. It’s not safe to look directly at Takeshi for too long; he imagines it’s something like staring into the sun, only instead of blindness it’s accompanied by the danger of reckless disregard for propriety. Even now he can feel his chest ache, his fingers curl with adrenaline-soaked desire to touch and pull and  _have_ , and they’re still probably in sight of the castle, well within the danger of being seen. “We’ll go back in a minute.”

“Hm?” Takeshi looks back down, eyes wide and shocked, and for a moment they’re staring right at each other. Hayato can see the corners of Takeshi’s eyes go soft, the way his pupils dilate wide and dark, and then Takeshi’s looking down at Hayato’s mouth and Hayato has to twist away, step forward fast before he doubles back over the safe gap between them.

He can hear Takeshi trailing in his wake, footsteps crunching over the rain-damp leaves underfoot, a laugh bright enough for a far warmer day that tingles all along Hayato’s spine. “Slow down, where are you going?”

“You said you were taking me out to the edges of the grounds,” Hayato says, without turning around this time. “We’re not there yet.”

“There’s just the forest out here.” Takeshi sounds confused and a little like he’s on the verge of laughter, the way he always sounds around Hayato. “There’s nothing to see.”

“There’s no  _one_  to see,” Hayato corrects with some aggression.

There’s a pause, a beat of realization he doesn’t need to see Takeshi’s face to picture spreading across his features. Then: “ _Oh_ ,” warm and breathless, and it’s a good thing they’re almost at the treeline because Hayato can feel his patience giving way with every step he takes. He speeds up, rushes a half dozen steps into the shadow and partial cover of the trees, and when he turns Takeshi is  _there_ , so close Hayato can just throw his hand out and close his fingers on the smooth of expensive fabric.

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses, a burst of raw gratification on his tongue, and they’re moving, stumbling sideways so Hayato can drag them out of sight of the castle, can shove Takeshi back against the support of a tree trunk and crush in against him. His knee fits between Takeshi’s, his hand comes up to fall against the back of the other boy’s neck, and Takeshi ducks in towards his mouth with his lips already parted in breathless-warm anticipation. Hayato can feel the other boy’s exhales hot over the curve of his mouth, stark counterpoint to the rain-cool of the air, and then he’s pressing their lips together and he’s not thinking about the air, or the forest, or anything except Takeshi. Takeshi’s hands are fitting at his waist and shoulder, gentle and careful like he’s afraid of hurting Hayato with the featherlight contact, and Hayato presses in harder, pins Takeshi in against the tree and tightens his fingers at the back of the other’s neck while he opens his mouth to lick rain-clean heat off soft lips.

“ _You_ ,” he growls with some aggression, dragging his fingers hard against the back of Takeshi’s neck like maybe he can shake some measure of self-control out of him. “Stop  _looking_  at me like that.”

Takeshi is staring at his mouth, lips parted and eyes dark as the skies overhead. “Looking at you like how?”

“ _That_ ,” Hayato snaps, and he’s coming back in, claiming all the soft offer of the other’s mouth as his territory with teeth and tongue and lips. Takeshi’s hands are steadying against him, fingers tightening at his hip and fitting up into his hair, but Hayato’s a step ahead, is holding Takeshi back against the tree with one hand at his hip and clinging to the back of his neck with the other.

“Like you’re thinking about sucking me off every moment of the day,” he clarifies when he can convince himself to pull away, when he can finds words for the heat raging through him.

He probably ought to have expected the way Takeshi’s expression cracks into a laugh, the way his eyelashes flutter like Hayato has scored a hit. “But I  _am_ \--”

“Don’t you  _dare_  say it,” Hayato insists. He wants to lean in for another kiss, wants to keep the sound of Takeshi’s laugh in his ears, wants the heat of the other’s mouth and the shape of his smile all at once until the conflicting desires are twisting him anxious and frustrated, keep him hovering a half-inch from contact with the other’s mouth. At least his hands have no such dilemma -- he has the front of Takeshi’s shirt coming open under his fingers, formal-rich fabric falling loose so he can get his hand in under the weight and against the tremor of tension in Takeshi’s stomach, and from the fingers closing into a fist at the edge of his own shirt Takeshi isn’t far behind in following his example.

“How am I supposed to wait,” Hayato asks rhetorically, tipping his head sideways like he’s angling for a kiss he doesn’t quite move into. Takeshi turns his head to match, gusts a breathless sigh at his mouth, and Hayato does move in then, crushes against the curve of his lips as he fits two fingers inside the loops at the front of Takeshi’s pants so he can start pulling the laces free.

“Just the nights aren’t  _enough_ ,” he growls as they pull apart again. Takeshi’s hold on him is far firmer now, the hand at his neck a hold tight enough to keep the other on his feet even without the support at his back, and his other hand is fitting up under Hayato’s shirt to press against his waist. If Hayato waits, they could have their hands on each other at once, press in skin-to-skin in the same moment instead of taking turns.

Hayato doesn’t wait. He’s all out of patience, was well before he looked over his shoulder to catch the smokey desire in Takeshi’s eyes as they approached the edge of the trees, and with the heat of bare skin temptingly close he’s not about to wait longer. He drags the laces free, fits his fingers in between the top line of cloth and skin too hot to yet have caught damp from the rain, and when Hayato pushes his hand down to reach for Takeshi’s cock he can feel the other’s hand seize into convulsive tension at his hip, can hear the rush of wanting inhale in the other’s lungs.

“You want it too,” he says, like it needs saying, like he can’t feel the hard heat of Takeshi’s cock pressing against his grasping fingers. Takeshi ducks in like he’s angling for a kiss and Hayato tightens his fingers into a hold, drags up quick to stall out Takeshi’s movement so the other boy goes gasping and shuddering against his shoulder instead of his mouth. “You’re goddamn breathless for me to touch you all day, aren’t you?” Takeshi whines against his shirt, an open-mouthed gasp of air probably louder than they should be, but the rain overhead sounds echoingly loud and Hayato can’t bring himself to care.

“Fuck,” is what he says instead, and he’s leaning in too, caving to the drag of Takeshi’s fingers at the edge of his shirt and fitting his mouth in against the curve of Takeshi’s neck into his shoulder. The collar of the other’s shirt is too high to give him a good angle for the bite he wants to set into Takeshi’s skin, the mark that all the  _shouldn’t_  in the world doesn’t stop him from wanting to leave, but it’s enough to get half-a-kiss against the skin instead. It doesn’t satisfy the burn of tension in his limbs but it gets him close enough to breathe in the heat off Takeshi’s skin, to taste the cool-air clean of him across his tongue, and then Takeshi’s fingers work up under his shirt and everything gives way into heat and incoherent friction. Takeshi’s clinging to him, fingernails scraping traction against the curve of Hayato’s spine, and Hayato’s moving his hand desperate-fast, working gasping reaction out of Takeshi’s lungs without even having to think. The rain is coming down harder, speckling the shoulders of his shirt with wet and echoing off the leaves overhead, but Hayato isn’t listening to that at all; all he’s hearing is Takeshi’s breathing coming faster with every stroke of his hand, the almost-pleading inhales the other is taking as Hayato jerks up over him.

They’re pressed close together, Takeshi’s fingers catching into Hayato’s hair to keep them pinned against each other, near enough that Hayato can hear the sticky catch on each of Takeshi’s inhales and can feel the tension building in his body. It feels like encouragement, sounds like a promise, and he’s moving faster, breathing as hard as Takeshi himself, when the hand at his back tenses, Takeshi flinching back like he’s trying to pull away.

“Hayato.” He’s straining for coherency, Hayato can hear the stutter in the simple sound of his name on Takeshi’s lips. “Hayato, wait, stop.”

“What?” Hayato jerks back like he’s been slapped, his hand going instantly still as his skin chills like the rain is taking the place of his blood. “Why?”

It snaps out like an argument, hurt and defensiveness surging over his tongue, but Takeshi doesn’t look upset; he still looks melted over, leaning against the support at his back like it’s the only thing holding him up, eyes so dark-dilated Hayato can’t make out their color in the dim light.

“Your shirt,” he gasps. Hayato can see the sound moving in his throat, struggling towards clarity instead of the groans that Takeshi’s been offering instead. “If you keep going I’ll…”

Hayato looks down, and Takeshi’s right. The way they’re angled Takeshi’s too close to the edge of Hayato’s clothes, and if they can explain some rain-caused damp they won’t have any excuse for anything more telltale. The interruption makes him scowl, the necessity of it infuriating as much as anything else, and he’s not as gentle as he could be when he lets his hold on Takeshi’s cock go to grab at the other boy’s hips instead.

“Fuck,” he growls, shoving hard enough that he knocks Takeshi’s hold on him loose and starts to turn him in a single motion. “Why do we have to  _worry_  about this?” Takeshi stumbles, turns under the force of Hayato’s hands, and with his footing unsteady it’s easy for Hayato to step forward against him, to shove an arm flat across Takeshi’s shoulders and press him in against the support of the tree. Takeshi’s hands come out to catch himself against the damp-dark bark, his breathing catching loudly enough for Hayato to hear even without the too-near position, and Hayato reaches around the other boy’s hip to replace his grip and pick back up the motion of his hand where he left off. Takeshi jerks at the sudden burst of sensation, rocks back probably unintentionally to press against Hayato’s hips, and that’s distraction enough to make up for the change in position, gives Hayato the possibility of grinding in against Takeshi while he jerks his hand up in a rush over the other boy’s flushed cock.

“I don’t want to have to think about excuses,” he snaps to the back of Takeshi’s neck. Takeshi is shaking, his head ducked in against the support in front of him, but Hayato can hear him gasping for air, can see the damp of rainwater collecting against the edge of Takeshi’s rich-hued collar.

“It’s  _distracting_ ,” and so is that damp, he’s leaning in unbidden to press his mouth to the curve of Takeshi’s neck and suck the water off his skin. It tastes more like Takeshi than rain, warm and faintly sweet on Hayato’s tongue, and he’s still pressed in close when Takeshi whimpers and shudders into weak-kneed pleasure against the support of the tree. There’s a spill of heat over Hayato’s fingers, Takeshi gasping himself through satisfaction as he comes, and Hayato wonders vaguely if they’ve made a mess of Takeshi’ _s_  clothes rather than his own.

They haven’t, as it turns out. Once Hayato lets his hand go and releases his bracing hold across Takeshi’s shoulders it turns out they’re both relatively clean, except for the rain soaking heavy into their shirts and clinging damp to the ruffled ends of Takeshi’s hair. Hayato’s staring at the light shining in the droplets, the way they’re sticking the dark strands down to the other boy’s skin, when Takeshi reaches for him, presses his fingers against the wet of Hayato’s shirt and drags him in for a kiss. It’s distracting, the weight of the other’s hold at his shoulders and the melted-warm slick of his tongue against Hayato’s mouth, and for a moment Hayato doesn’t realize that they’re turning again, doesn’t process that they’ve swapped positions until his shoulders hit something solid and Takeshi pulls back to gasp, “Hayato” like there’s some magic in the sound of his name.

“We’ll make a mess,” Hayato pants as Takeshi’s fingers catch at the top of his pants, pull the cloth loose with something that is, indeed, somewhat mystical or maybe just desperate haste. “Won’t someone be looking for us?”

“Just a minute,” Takeshi soothes, and there’s some kind of irony, there, that they have switched roles, that it’s on Hayato’s behalf and not his own that Takeshi is urging indulgence. “Please, please, just a minute longer,” and his fingers are sliding in over hot-damp skin and Hayato is having trouble standing, can’t remember how to get his lungs to work properly in his chest.

“God,” he says. “This is such a bad idea,” but he doesn’t push Takeshi away, even turns his head sideways when Takeshi nuzzles in close to kiss just under his ear. Hayato feels superheated, as if the raindrops pattering overhead and catching at his eyelashes ought to be evaporating to steam before they even touch him, and Takeshi’s fingers are sliding up across his length and  _oh_ , it really will only take him a minute, like this. His hand comes out, catches at Takeshi’s shoulder for an instant, but then Takeshi is moving, the point of contact shifting down and away, and Hayato is growling incoherent protest before he can get his attention back in focus to see what Takeshi is doing.

Then he does see, and the protest dies on his lips, shifts over seamlessly into a groan as Takeshi’s knees hit the wet leaves under them and Takeshi’s fingers drag his pants down to make enough space for the other boy’s mouth against Hayato’s skin.

“That’s not fair,” Hayato says, fingers stretching out to dig into the wet-slick dark of Takeshi’s hair and make a fist to steady himself. He’s leaned against the tree already but it’s still hard to keep his balance when Takeshi’s mouth presses against him, the heat of the other boy’s mouth sliding in over the head of his cock. “ _Ah_. You’re -- you’re going to be a mess by the time we get back too.”

Takeshi doesn’t pull away to respond. He just hums, low and satisfied like he’s not even hearing the meaning of Hayato’s words, and Hayato arches his back in lieu of protest, the candleflame tension of pleasure flickering up his spine. Takeshi’s mouth is warm, warmer than it reasonably should be, contrast with the rain spattering against them turning him completely radiant. There’s water all across Hayato’s face, wet strands of his hair dripping onto his shoulders and blinding him when he tries to see, but Takeshi’s hair is soft against his palms, the slide of the other’s tongue and lips wholly easy and smooth and so much, too much, Hayato can feel tension collecting in his thighs and trembling his balance away. He gasps air, fills his lungs with wet-cool air that turns instantly to heat in his blood, and when he blinks the water from his lashes he can see Takeshi clear, his eyes shut and expression clear of anything but contentment, his lips tight against Hayato’s cock and sliding flushed and pink as he moves. Hayato chokes on an inhale, tightens his grip like he’s bracing Takeshi and himself at once, and that’s it, he’s thrusting reflexively forward over Takeshi’s tongue and coming with a groan that spills low and purring from some untapped resonance in his chest. Everything goes warm, damp turning to steam at his hair and skin and clothes, and when Takeshi pulls away to blink gold up at him Hayato grabs at his soaked-through shirt, drags him to his feet so he can press his mouth to the faint salty taste caught at the other boy’s lips.

“We should go back,” he admits when they pull apart to gasp air, Takeshi’s fingers winding up into his hair. “They’ll wonder where we are, someone will come looking for us.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums agreement, “Yeah.” He still doesn’t look convinced, or maybe it’s comprehension that he’s lacking; his eyes are glazed, his dazed expression so tempting Hayato has to grab at his shoulder and press another round of kisses against his parted lips, before he can make himself pull away. It doesn’t help Takeshi’s clarity -- if anything he looks hazier than he did before, glowing from the inside out like it’s sun overhead and not rain-heavy clouds -- but it helps Hayato, gives him enough warmth to keep his hands to himself when they reemerge from the trees with their wet clothes back in place and the pleasure-flush on their skin hidden by shivers of cold.

There are servants waiting when they get back inside, full of concern and ready with hot bathes and dry clothes for the both of them. Hayato lets himself be swept off to his rooms, rinses the rainwater from his hair and off his skin, but even when the steam has permeated into his very bones, he doesn’t feel as warm as he did with Takeshi’s mouth on him.


	14. Obvious

“Someone  _must_  suspect,” Hayato says as he’s shoving Takeshi back to the bed, ducking his head to press his mouth to the other’s shoulder low enough that any marks will be safely covered by clothing. “Hasn’t anyone noticed that you’re never in your bed at night?”

“I don’t know,” Takeshi admits immediately. He falls back over the mattress, sliding sideways to end up mostly centered; it’s more than they managed the first few nights, indicates something that might have a passing resemblance to patience, if only in that Hayato waits until Takeshi’s settled before he climbs on the bed to fit himself over the other’s hips. Takeshi’s hands come out as fast as he’s moving, tighten into a steadying hold against the top edge of Hayato’s pants, and maybe it’s not quite patience, after all, from how instantly hot Hayato’s blood flares. “No one’s said anything about it.”

“Maybe it’s just because they know you won’t listen,” Hayato suggests. He’s grinning, teasing amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth until his expression is impossible to restrain. When he stretches out a hand to trail down Takeshi’s chest the other boy’s eyelashes shift, his back arching up to meet the contact like Hayato’s fingertips are magnetized. “Maybe everyone in the entire castle knows.”

“They should say something then,” Takeshi smiles. “I wouldn’t bother with trying to be sneaky if I knew they knew.”

“I don’t think you’re particularly subtle,” Hayato teases, as if he has any kind of a grasp on subtlety himself. The best he can manage is to avoid meeting Takeshi’s eyes in public, since he can’t fight back the softness in his expression or the smile at his lips if he does, and between his own avoidance and Takeshi’s concerted, constant attention on him, he’s fairly certain their secret is as obvious as it can be without them actually kissing in the middle of one of the formal meals they share with the rest of the visitors. Hayato knows he  _should_  care, that he ought to reach for all the dozens of reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this or should be frightened of the idea of being found out instead of grinning about them on his bed while he works Takeshi’s pants open and off his hips. But no matter how much he tells himself what he  _should_  do all it takes is the soft of Takeshi’s smile before he’s off again, growling protest he knows he won’t sustain and looking for the least excuse to get them a moment of privacy.

“Fuck,” he says now, forming the shape of a curse without even an attempt at the strain of true irritation under it. Takeshi tips his hips up as Hayato pulls at his clothes, the coordination getting smoother with their daily practice, and Hayato’s takes a breath of anticipation as the fabric slides down to bare tanned legs far longer than they should be. “I can’t believe you.” Takeshi’s knees come up, the pants come off, and Hayato tosses them aside, rocks in to fit into the space between Takeshi’s legs before he’s bothered to get his own clothes off. Takeshi smiles, warm and languid and blissful when they’ve only barely started, and something in Hayato’s chest twists, tightens in his throat so he can’t speak for a moment.

“What don’t you believe?” Takeshi asks into the moment of quiet, hooking his legs around Hayato’s waist and arching up to cross the gap between them. His eyes are soft, drifting down across Hayato’s features like a touch, stalling for a breath at his mouth before continuing down his neck to his shoulder, wandering idle attention over his skin.

“You,” Hayato says, angling for irritation in his voice and only succeeding in dropping the word into a growl that sounds more heated than it does angry. He frowns at the sound but Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, an arm comes up to press against his shoulders, and the soft of the other’s lips is too much temptation too willingly offered. Hayato gives in to the pull at his shoulders, presses in close against Takeshi’s skin, and when his mouth fits against warm lips he can feel the purr of satisfaction in the other’s throat straight in his blood. Takeshi shifts under him, Hayato rocks down, and for a minute they’re caught together, falling into rhythm with each other with the learned ease of the last few days. Hayato’s hand lands at Takeshi’s waist, pushes down against warm-flushed skin and out across the curve of his hip, and Takeshi shivers, rocks up against him like he’s trying to cross over the remaining barrier of skin between them to occupy the same space as Hayato himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” Hayato says, drawing back to catch a lungful of air and reach out for the bottle that has come to stay against the table alongside his bed. Takeshi doesn’t even look up to follow the motion of his hand; he’s tipping his head in instead, fitting his lips to the dip between Hayato’s collarbones and sighing heat into the shape. It makes Hayato shiver irrationally with the warmth, flutters his eyelashes momentarily heavy, and when he tries to breathe out it sounds like a groan better suited for something more intense than a ghosting kiss at his shoulder.

“How do you even  _exist_?” he growls, desperate attempt at force while he works the bottle open one-handed, leans in closer to brace himself on an elbow so he can manage the coordination with the necessary two hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be a prince?” His fingers are slick, the bottle safety closed again, and he’s too close, he has to duck back in to crush his mouth to Takeshi’s, to suck friction over the other’s lower lip while he pushes his hand in under the other’s leg to fit between them.

“You have responsibilities,” Hayato gasps as he pulls away, tries to clear his head enough to turn his hand around to fit against Takeshi. “Appearances to maintain, right?” Takeshi’s eyelashes are shifting heavy with heat, Hayato’s not even sure he’s seeing the other’s face; he tips himself up off the bed by an inch and there, that’s it, Hayato shifts the angle of his wrist and starts to press a finger inside the other boy. Takeshi’s head goes back, his throat drags over a ragged sigh, and Hayato has to duck in, kiss the vibration there as he slides his finger in deeper to press reaction from the other boy.

“You have a visiting peace delegation,” Hayato says, only somewhat breathless from the way Takeshi’s knees are shifting wider and how hot Takeshi’s cock is pressing against the edge of his hip. “Shouldn’t you be concerned with diplomacy and welcoming committees instead of letting me fuck you whenever I want?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, and Hayato can feel the purr under his lips and tightening momentarily against his fingers. “You’re part of the delegation too, though.”

“Oh, I see,” Hayato mock-growls, pulls his hand back to stretch Takeshi around a second finger as well as the first. “So you’d do this with anyone, is that it?”

“ _Hayato_ ,” Takeshi whimpers, protest skipping high into the leading edge of hurt. When Hayato lifts his head Takeshi is watching him, brows drawn tight and wounded over the soft heat in his eyes, and guilt strikes like lightning, stinging through his veins with cringing heat.

“I’m teasing,” he says quick, backtracking into the hot catch of another kiss and pressing in deeper with his fingers. He can feel Takeshi relax back into soft compliance under him, the arm wrapped around his shoulders going gentle and calm again, and he slides a knee up under Takeshi’s, braces himself so he can thrust harder with his fingers as he draws back enough to see the other’s face.

“It’s just me,” he says, offering words to fit over Takeshi’s tongue and damp-parted lips.”That’s right, yeah?”

Takeshi nods, his eyes going hazy with each motion of Hayato’s fingers into him. Hayato can see the lack of focus in his gaze, the struggle he has to make to track the other’s face as he nods, says, “Yes, yeah, that’s right,” like he’s repeating back a chant.

“Anything I want,” Hayato suggests, draws his hand back so he can angle in a little higher, can get Takeshi’s back to arch and his throat to work on a moan of reaction to his movements. “You’ll let me do anything.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, shuts his eyes and swallows hard. The hand at Hayato’s shoulder tenses, braces his weight for a moment as Hayato spreads his fingers wider, presses Takeshi open under his touch. “ _Ah_. Yeah, anything you want, Hayato.”

“God,” Hayato says, sound catching and tearing in his throat until he has to duck his head and shut his eyes to breathe. Takeshi is whining instead of breathing, trembling so Hayato can feel it all up his arm; it takes conscious effort to slide his fingers back, another burst of concentration to push Takeshi’s arm away so he can sit up and unfasten his pants. “You’re ridiculous.” His hands are shaking, adrenaline burning fire through his veins; Takeshi doesn’t try to drag him back, just stays where he is with an arm fallen over his head and blinking dreamy attention at Hayato’s motions. He doesn’t make a move to touch himself either, although Hayato can see for himself how flushed-hard he is; he just stays where he is, breathing hard against the bed and waiting while Hayato gets his pants undone and shoved down off his legs.

“There,” he says, a growl of relief as his feet come free and he can shove the cloth off the bed to the floor. The delay is worth it when he leans back in and Takeshi’s legs come back around him, when there’s skin-on-skin at every point of contact instead of with a layer of cloth in the way. Hayato leans in against the bed, rocking his weight forward over his knees as Takeshi arches up to meet him, and for a moment he gives over coherent speech for the friction of Takeshi’s lips on his, for the warm-coiling pleasure of tasting the inside of Takeshi’s mouth. They’re both breathing hard, all but panting over each other, and when Hayato reaches out it’s to grab at Takeshi’s wrist, to pin his arm up over his head and hold him steady as he moves to fit himself against the other boy. Takeshi doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to pull away; he’s staring instead, eyes wide and dark and mouth open on the rush of his breathing, and Hayato’s chest tightens again, a sensation nearly painful running all through him as he starts to thrust forward. Friction hits him, heat and tension closing in like it’s his whole body sweeping hot, and he has to close his own eyes and almost-flinch through the rush of response that tingles out into him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps. His fingers tighten at Takeshi’s wrist, dig in against Takeshi’s hip, and Takeshi is moving too, hooking a leg around Hayato’s waist and arching himself up closer. They’re close as they can be, pressed in so near Hayato’s breathing off Takeshi’s lips, and it’s not enough, it’s not close enough to unwind the tension all along Hayato’s spine.

“God,” he says, a meaningless exclamation of heat and frustrated sensation, pulls back to thrust in again, harder, like the impact will get them closer. Takeshi jerks, shudders helpless to the motion, and Hayato groans, lets his hip go to fumble a hand against the other’s free hand instead.

“Here.” They pause for a moment, hesitating in the midst of overheated motion so Hayato can shift their position; then he has both Takeshi’s hands under one of his, the clean lines of strong wrists pinned under his fingers and over Takeshi’s head to draw the other’s body long and curving in a graceful arc. There’s nothing in his way, now, from trailing his fingers down Takeshi’s collarbone to the indent of his waist, back out and over his hip to tighten a bracing hold against him.

“That’s better,” Hayato growls, and when he moves again he’s holding Takeshi in place, bracing the other’s movement until he’s still for Hayato’s thrusts. Takeshi groans wordless against the air, reaction tightening his legs around Hayato’s waist, and this is better, this is closer, this is where Hayato wanted him.

“Just me,” he says, hot and fast and almost-anxious, digs his fingers in hard against Takeshi’s skin. “Tell me, Takeshi.”

“It’s just you,” Takeshi says, fast and rushed, and then he laughs, a splash of warm delight that melts over into another moan as Hayato bucks his hips forward to fuck into him in one quick movement. “ _Hayato_. Anything you want, whatever you want.”

“God,” Hayato growls again, his throat going as tight as his chest, as tight as the heat lancing up his spine. “Fuck,  _god_ , Takeshi.” He has to shut his mouth, doesn’t know what he’d say if he lets more words spill free; safer to brace himself over Takeshi’s wrists, to free a hand to fit between them and curl tight around Takeshi’s cock. Takeshi’s eyes come open, a burst of shocked-open pleasure to match the sound that pours out of his throat, and Hayato starts to move, quick rushed motions of his wrist like that will better remedy the weight crushing into him than the satisfaction of his own orgasm.

It  _is_  satisfying to watch, the way Takeshi’s head goes back and his eyelashes move like he can’t figure out if he wants to stare heat at Hayato or shut his eyes to the distraction of vision. His hands curl in on themselves, like he’s thinking about but not quite making fists, his hips tilting to meet Hayato’s grip until the rocking movement is burning away Hayato’s attention along with the rushed pace of his thrusts, the heat in his blood rising in spite of his focus on Takeshi’s face, his concentration on drawing the tremors along Takeshi’s spine out into his entire body. Takeshi still has a leg up around his hip, the other thrown wide over the bed; Hayato can hear his foot shifting, like he’s trying to gain traction to push himself up higher and closer. It makes him grin, breathless and overheated and desperate for satisfaction, and then his hand slides slick against the head of Takeshi’s cock and he can feel the other boy’s tension shudder away entirely. He’s spilling against Hayato’s fingers, pulsing in waves of heat across Hayato’s hand and around his cock, and Hayato is the one groaning, choking on unintelligible affection and collapsing in closer to press them together as Takeshi sighs himself into shaky relief. Hayato’s hold on the other’s wrists go, his hand comes out to press sticky prints against Takeshi’s hip, and Takeshi is pulling him down and closer and curving up into the rhythmic movement of Hayato pressing forward into him. There are lips at Hayato’s hair, fingers catching at his shoulders and sliding along the curve of his spine, and with Takeshi pressed in so close against him it’s only a few heat-hurried thrusts before Hayato’s self-control caves completely and he comes groaning Takeshi’s name against the heat of his bare shoulder. There’s a whimper of appreciation at his hair, the press of lips into his skin, and Hayato lets his breath gust into a sigh as all his tension shudders away into exhausted satisfaction.

Takeshi is humming, Hayato realizes when he thinks to listen again. It’s not a tune, at least not one Hayato can piece together; it’s just sound, idle vibration like he’s not bothering to hold back the purr of appreciation Hayato can feel thrumming not-quite audibly in his own blood.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says into Takeshi’s shoulder without bothering to lift his head.

Takeshi laughs, a bright burble of sound like water splashing over rocks. The arm around Hayato’s shoulder tightens, pulls him in closer for the span of heartbeat, and Hayato thinks then what he doesn’t say, isn’t willing to put into words even for Takeshi’s hearing alone.

He’d do anything at all to stay here forever.


	15. Silence

Hayato claims illness on their last day.

It’s a remarkably easy thing to do, to feign a tremble in his voice and answer the door in his undershirt, offer an apology and vague complaints of dizziness and exhaustion as an excuse to stay abed. It’s an impulsive lie, and not one Hayato had thought to warn Takeshi about before he slipped back to his own room early that morning. Apparently he doesn’t need to, though, because it’s barely an hour later that there’s a tap on the door, Takeshi smiling some reasoning about keeping him entertained while he rests, and Hayato doesn’t even bother speaking before he holds the door open to let the other in.

It’s a relief to have his scheme work so well. Hayato isn’t sure he could have borne keeping up the pretense of distance when every hour feels like a death knell, when the ache in his chest that kept him from sleep is only growing tighter with every passing minute. He forgets it, for a while, loses himself in the infinity offered by friction against heated skin and then in the languid comfort of afterglow, but it always comes back, the weight of reality bearing in on the walls of his life, until it’s hard even to blink for fear of the loss.

Hayato is sprawled across the bed come midday, after Takeshi accepted the soup and bread brought up by the servants on Hayato’s behalf and politely refused the offer of a doctor. He still has an apple in his fingers, now, is turning it over like he’s wholly forgotten what he’s holding for staring out the window at the ever-steady downpour outside.

“You really do like the rain,” Hayato observes from the bed. It’s more comfortable to lie on his stomach over the mattress than to perch on the ledge at the window, and he’s not completely sure he’d be able to move without the tremors in his limbs giving away the bone-deep exhaustion of insomnia and pleasant exertion in tandem. “I’d get tired of watching the same thing every day.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, shakes his head in half-aware disagreement. “No, it’s nice. Soothing, kind of.” He looks away from the window, soft-warm eyes meeting Hayato’s gaze, and his mouth spreads into a gentle curve of affection. “Here.” The apple comes flying, an easy angle to catch if Hayato put his hand out; he doesn’t, tips sideways instead so it hits the sheets, and Takeshi laughs, warm and unbearably soft.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He unfolds from his seat, comes across the room to drop a knee onto the edge of the bed; Hayato doesn’t sit up, doesn’t crane his neck to look up. It’s easier to let his eyes shut, to duck his head so his hair curtains his face and leaves his shoulders bare for Takeshi’s mouth. He almost smiles when a kiss inevitably brushes against the edge of his shoulder; Takeshi has proven to be perfectly predictable in this, at least.

“No.” He tips down to lie flat on the bed, reaches out with one hand to catch at Takeshi’s ankle and drag his fingertips in over the arch of his foot. “I’ll eat later.”

“You’ll want to eat something before…” Takeshi starts, stops before Hayato can muster the energy to tell him to shut up. It’s not like it matters that much anyway; he can’t escape the awareness now, the weight of the future too near now to hide from even with Takeshi breathing warm at his shoulder and Takeshi’s bare skin fitting against his fingerprints.

“I’m not hungry,” Hayato repeats without any fire, turns his head to press his forehead against his arm and breathe against the sheets, slowly, so the tension in his throat doesn’t turn into the sobs he’s been fighting back. “I just want to stay like this.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, so soft and agonizingly gentle that Hayato’s breathing stalls entirely, that even squeezing his eyes shut isn’t enough to stop the pressure of the tears against his lashes. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not  _crying_ ,” Hayato chokes, lets Takeshi’s ankle go so he can swing blindly at the other’s arm. “Shut up, shut  _up_.”

“It’s okay,” Takeshi says. The bed shifts, there’s weight at Hayato’s back, and then there’s a knee fitting in between his, the soft of dark hair settling between his shoulderblades as Takeshi stretches out against him. “It’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Hayato says against the sheets, but he’s not moving to push Takeshi off. It’s more comforting than all that words can do to have the other boy pressed so close against him, the weight such a reassurance Hayato feels like Takeshi belongs there, like they were meant to fit together like this. “You  _can’t_  know that, I could leave tomorrow and never see you again.”

“We will,” Takeshi says. His arm fits in around Hayato’s waist, presses up against the other’s chest like he’s worming his way into the other’s defensive posture. “We’ll see each other again.”

“You sound sure,” Hayato observes. The tension in his throat is easing in spite of himself, a smile he can’t help dragging at the corner of his mouth, and Takeshi purrs something warm and wordless against his spine.

“Mm.” A kiss, lingering long against his shoulder, and Takeshi shifts his weight, presses his nose in against Hayato’s neck through the fall of his hair. “I’m sure.” Takeshi takes a breath, and then there’s a pause, made hesitant by the weight of that inhale until Hayato starts to stiffen again with expectation in spite of the comfort at his spine.

“Takeshi?” he asks, turns his head to try to get a glimpse of the other’s face.

An exhale, rushed and nearly anxious; then: “Hayato,” low and heavy with sincerity. “I lov--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Hayato gasps, and he’s twisting so quickly his elbow clips Takeshi’s forehead, cuts off the unfinished sentence in a yelp of reflexive pain as they both go sliding over the bed. Takeshi’s hand comes up to press against his forehead, his expression twisted into hurt, and Hayato grabs at his shoulder to push him down to the bed, claps his hand hard over Takeshi’s mouth.

“Don’t say it,” he says, rushed and desperate to hold back the half-spoken words on Takeshi’s tongue. Takeshi blinks away the hurt, his eyes coming into confused focus on Hayato’s face, and Hayato goes on without waiting for more. “Don’t act like this is our last chance, I won’t let you.” His heart is pounding in his chest and his voice is shaking and he doesn’t know  _why_  this panic is flaring in him but it is, tight and frantic in his throat and pressing his fingers tighter over Takeshi’s parted lips.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, sharp and clear and certain. “Tell me later. When you see me again.”

Takeshi blinks, careful motion of dark lashes over wide-shocked eyes; then he nods, careful and slowly, so Hayato can see it, and Hayato lets some of the panic go from his chest and lifts his hand.

“Okay,” Takeshi says as soon as his mouth is free. “I will.” He shifts his hand at his head, scrunches up his nose as the soft at his mouth turns into a laugh. “That hurt.”

“You’re the one who pinned me down,” Hayato growls, leaning his weight forward so he can stretch out against Takeshi’s chest, shove the other’s hand away so he can feel out the maybe-bruise of his elbow hitting the other’s head. “I was just gaining the upper hand.”

Takeshi laughs, shuts his eyes and tips his head like he’s submitting to something more forceful than Hayato’s fingers sliding gently into his hair. He looks happy like this, with amusement clinging to his lips and breathing slow contentment close enough for Hayato to hear the pace of his inhales. Hayato is too caught in watching him to pay attention to what his fingers are doing, to realize when his touch has wandered far off-course to slide in against the back of Takeshi’s neck instead of just scoping out the minor injury.

Takeshi turns his head, silent offer in response to Hayato’s touch, and for a moment Hayato just watches, with Takeshi’s long legs caught with his and the suggestion of his skin calling for a kiss. There’s an ache in his throat, pressure in his chest, and when Takeshi murmurs, “You know, though, right?” he has to shut his eyes and duck in to press his mouth to Takeshi’s fluttering pulse before he says  _I know_  out loud.

The silence is the only promise he has of a future.


	16. Cold

It’s colder when they leave than when they arrived.

Hayato was expecting that. He gave up on warmth this morning, when the crush of Takeshi’s mouth against his gave way to the other boy slipping out at the last possible moment to make it back to his room. Everything after that -- the overly formal breakfast with Takeshi tucked away at the other end of the table, the extended farewells and wishes for a safe journey with no sincerity behind them, the line of too-tight handshakes -- was just an exercise in agony, drawing out the goodbye Hayato doesn’t want to hear.

He expected the worst to be the handshake, the awful distant formality of gloved fingers crushing together in some cruel echo of the way Takeshi’s hands fit into his hair not hours before. The physical contact isn’t enough alone, apparently; in the hum of insincere speech Takeshi whispers “ _Hayato_ ,” his voice cracking apart like he’s on the verge of tears, and when Hayato looks up he can only take a moment of the pain dimming all the light in Takeshi’s gold eyes before he wrenches his fingers free and moves on to the next greeting. He doesn’t meet anyone else’s gaze after that; it seems safer, with his eyes burning with emotion too close to anger to allow for tears.

Even that wasn’t enough, as it turns out. The last of it -- the worst of it -- comes at the stables, when Hayato is splashing through puddles and too achingly heartsick to care about the effect the mud will have on the trailing edge of his coat. He’s not looking around -- there’s nothing to see but the weight of the rain anyway -- and the grab at his sleeve makes him jump, nearly shout before he can turn and see who it is dragging at his shirt. Then he makes out dark hair, long legs granting unreasonable height, and he’s stumbling forward, giving in to the force before he even thinks to look around to check for an audience.

They come around the corner of a building, into a pathway wide and clear of any but themselves for a moment, and Hayato doesn’t need to be told what Takeshi intends. He’s grabbing as fast as the other is, rocking up onto his toes and pressing his gloved hands against the back of Takeshi’s neck as fast as Takeshi is pulling him in and ducking to crush their mouths together. It’s freezing, the rain coming down hard against Hayato’s hair and trickling under his collar, and the weight of Takeshi’s hand at his back just presses wet fabric against his skin to send another shiver up his spine, but that doesn’t push him away. He stays instead, for the breath of time that would be risky and well into the seconds that spell out stupidity, fingers pressing bruises against Takeshi’s neck and licking desperation over the other’s mouth like he can find heat enough if he just tries hard enough.

Then there’s a call, “Prince Hayato?” far too close for any kind of comfort, and Hayato shoves back, breaks free of Takeshi’s magnetism all at once. They stare at each other for a single sustained moment, Takeshi’s eyes still half-lidded and his mouth still damp from Hayato’s instead of from the rain; then Hayato is going, turning away and ducking back around the corner before Takeshi has yet let his hands drop from his instinctive reach for the other boy.

There’s truly no chance for more, after that. The servants are already waiting for Hayato, offering the reins of his horse and half-voiced questions he ignores completely rather than trying to come up with convincing lies. When he turns his face up the rain catches at his skin, gives him an excuse for the damp collecting over his cheeks, and by the time he’s riding out over the front bridge with the rest of the delegation it really is nothing but rainwater wet against his chilled skin.

They make it back to sunlight later that day, the rich yellow glow promising dry clothes and radiant heat. Hayato can hear the pleasure in the voices around him, relief and anticipation of homecoming.

Even in the sunlight, he’s too cold to shiver.


	17. Heartless

Bianchi gives Hayato barely two days after his return.

He was expecting it, in the same distant way that he feels he could be ready for anything, now, like the numb chill in his chest has taken the place of any more dramatic emotions like surprise or anger or fright. Everything feels removed, like he’s standing behind a pane of glass and watching events occur around someone else, so even when Bianchi announces her presence by saying “Hayato” from the shadows around a corner, he doesn’t startle.

“Bianchi.” He pauses in the middle of the corridor, clean in the warm glow of the light. “What is it?”

She steps forward out of the cross-hallway, head up and shoulders back and looking as regal as if she were in a formal gathering. It would be more effective if Hayato hadn’t seen this pose on a daily basis since he was barely old enough to walk; the intimidation factor is rather lost in the soft edges of familiarity.

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s not the gentle inquiry it might be from someone else; this has teeth to it, a sharp edge of judgment no less cutting for how perfectly calm Bianchi’s expression remains. “Or are you planning to take up melancholy as a full-time occupation?”

Hayato’s forehead creases, a twist of irritation struggling to light itself in the constant weight on his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It feels like a lie even on his own tongue, the certainty of misery too solid in his mind for him to push aside for the purposes of deceiving his sister. “What do you care, anyway?”

“It’s bad for morale,” Bianchi says, so immediately Hayato barks a humorless laugh. “And I’m concerned for you,” softer, a little more gently, like she’s admitting to a flaw in herself. “You’ve been like this for days now.”

“Like  _what_?” Hayato attempts, although Bianchi’s steady consideration says his denial is fooling her no more than it’s fooling himself. “Is the possibility of war insufficient reason?”

“You never cared before,” Bianchi says, folding her arms in front of her.

Something about the angle of her wrist and the focused consideration in her eyes is far more frightening than any of the shouts Hayato’s father levels at him when he pleads against the inevitability of a conflict in the now-daily conferences that have become more war preparations than negotiations. “I had a change of heart,” Hayato growls past gritted teeth. “ _You_  told me to care more, and now you’re upset that I do?”

“Not upset,” Bianchi corrects. “Worried. Have you been sleeping at all?”

“Fuck off,” Hayato groans.

“If you won’t take care of yourself--”

“I  _will_!” Hayato shouts, and it is anger in him after all, the heat of irritation he hasn’t felt since the ache of loss drowned every else out. “I don’t need you to mother me,  _sister_ , I am  _well_  aware of my responsibilities to this country!”

“Are you?” Bianchi asks, the flat tone of her voice more cutting than a shout would be. “What  _happened_  during your visit to leave you like this?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Hayato grates, curls his fingers into fists at his sides hard enough to press the pain of his fingernails against his palms. “Everyone was very polite, I was shown around the palace grounds for a week by Prince Takeshi, and the  _adults_  decided to go to war without consulting us.” His voice skids out into scorn on the word, holds level over the middle; he’d be proud of himself for such an excellent deception, if he dared to let his sister’s stare go for a moment.

Bianchi’s shoulders relax. When she blinks some of the attention in her eyes gives way to understanding, and Hayato can take a breath of relief that his lie has apparently gone unnoticed.

“Hayato.” She steps in closer, unfolds her arms to rest a hand at his shoulder. Hayato clings to the appearance of anger, ready to snap out at the reassurance she will surely give that no one wants to exclude him, the simple comfort given to a child throwing a tantrum. “Don’t say his name in front of Father.”

Hayato’s stomach drops so fast for a moment it’s nausea that hits him, all the gravity in the world giving way to horror. “Wh--whose name?” he manages, stuttering the question so badly it undermines his attempt before he’s even put voice to it.

“I’m sorry,” Bianchi is saying, as smoothly as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s unfortunate for the both of you. Let’s hope your prince is better at controlling his expression than you are.”

“He’s not my prince,” Hayato says without thinking. He’s staring past Bianchi’s shoulder, too numb with shock to risk meeting the gaze he can feel fixed on him.

“Oh, Hayato.” The touch at his shoulder comes up, fingers pressing gentle comfort against his jaw, and he does look down then. Bianchi is smiling, the expression barely touching her mouth with soft sympathetic amusement. “You really are a terrible liar.”

Hayato can feel every beat of his heart like an explosion, every moment leaves him shocked to still be standing. “Bianchi.” His voice is weird, low and shaking and barely recognizable as his own. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Bianchi’s smile flickers, a shadow sweeping over her eyes. “Please,” she says, and there’s something very close to human emotion in her tone, dipping her voice soft for a moment. “I’m not as heartless as you think I am.”

Something like gravity comes back to Hayato’s world, an influx of support he never expected to have. The relief is so strong it tightens his throat, burns held-back emotion right past the wall between him and the pain, and very suddenly his eyes are dizzy with damp. Bianchi slides her gaze away, slips her hand free, and then she’s gone, rustling down the hallway with as much composure as she entered it.

Hayato doesn’t need to look back to know she doesn’t. She’s always been better at acting than he is.


	18. Ultimatum

“Then we are decided.”

The king’s voice is clear, the carrying presence of a man who has years of experience telling him he will be listened to, a man who has never accepted anything but submission as his birthright. Hayato supposes, in some distant part of his mind behind the hum of horrified resignation, that that’s why Hayato himself grates so on his father’s nerves, with the backbone his mother lacks and none of the politic maneuvering Bianchi is so adept in.

It’s not as if his resistance has made a difference, in the end. Hayato never really let himself believe in any outcome but this, but certainty of a future shadow isn’t the same as having the last glimpse of light cut off at last. It’s almost funny to realize how flippant he was about this precise possibility barely a month ago, when war seemed inevitable and unimportant, something hazy on the horizon without any immediate consequences to him.

He would laugh, now, he thinks, if he weren’t so cold.

“You may leave me,” the king continues, and the room goes loud in the simultaneous movement of dozens of bodies, boots kicking against the floor and the weight of heavy chairs skidding back from the table. Hayato moves too -- he can go through the motions of being present, even if he lacks the energy to offer more immediate reaction -- is staring down at the unmarked papers in front of him, intended for notes he never took, when his father speaks again.

“Hayato.” Distant, his name, but no colder than usual. There’s no edge to the sound, just calm assumption of obedience. Something in Hayato bristles at that, a spark of independence too deep-bred in his blood to stay down under even the weight of depression, and when he looks up it’s with a frown coming at his lips, eyes narrowing in irritation electric in his numb body. “I would have a word with you.”

Hayato doesn’t answer. It’s enough, he feels, that he stays where he is, on his feet and pointedly waiting for his father to continue speaking. It cannot be anything too terrible; the king has never been shy about his rages, and were it something he’s angry about he wouldn’t bother to give them the privacy they will gain from an empty room. It doesn’t make an enormous amount of difference anyway; Hayato can feel  _his_  anger rising to the surface, grating hot in his veins like a mockery of the warmth he can’t seem to grasp these days, and it’s not happiness and it’s not pleasure but it’s something, at least, so he clings to it, winds it tight around both hands and digs his fingers in to keep it around him.

“What do you want?” he snaps as the door swings shut behind the last of the advisors. The anger feels good in his throat, burns like alcohol into his chest, and some knot in him thrums with anticipation of a fight, expectation of relief in the form of one of the infamous shouting matches between the crown prince and the king of the realm. He’s ready for it, adrenaline coursing through him and tightening every muscle in his body in anticipation; he would almost welcome a punch, at this point, just for the explosive white-out shock of the pain.

The king leans back in his chair, tips his head up to meet Hayato’s glare with flat consideration without any of the fury Hayato wants. “I’m sending you out with the rest of the army.”

And Hayato’s fire is gone, just like that, extinguished in the space of a breath by the gust of freezing horror that spills through him. It’s not fear for the blood or the violence or even the prospect of actually killing with his own hands; that will come later, he’s sure. This is the ice of hope cut clean through, the possibility so dark even Hayato’s worst nightmares haven’t given it form.

“What?” he asks, lips working mechanically as if they are someone else’s.

“When the army marches, you’ll be going with them,” the king says, that level tone like a wall offering no handholds for protest. “I’ll be leading the main attack force and I’m putting you with one of the flanking parties.”

Hayato can’t think. All his protests come down to one, a wail of refusal tangled up in memories of a soft smile and bright eyes, too-loud laughter and a hand reaching for him in the rain. His objections to the war are no more than that, in the end, that he doesn’t  _want_  to, that the only thing he ever really wants anymore will be on the other side of the field and that there will be no going back when he has the blood of Takeshi’s countrymen on his hands.

“I can’t,” he says, blurts too fast to take it back. “I’ve never been on a battlefield, I have no experience leading men.” It’s a poor excuse, flimsy at best when he’s never been afraid of risks before, but he’s scrambling for a reason,  _any_  reason to keep him as far from the front as possible, as if by keeping himself off the field he can somehow ensure Takeshi will remain safely behind walls as well.

His father’s brows lower, his face setting into the lines of rage Hayato so wanted moments ago. “There will always be a first time,” he says, and he’s not standing, yet, but the tension in his shoulders says he could surge to his feet at a moment’s notice. “This will be yours.”

“ _No_ ,” Hayato says, an explosion of emotion on his tongue, and his father’s hand comes down flat on the table, so hard the heavy weight of it rocks at it impact.

“ _Do you defy me_?” he shouts, the low heavy rumble of the oncoming storm, a warning if Hayato could make himself obey it. “This is an  _order_  from your  _king_ , Hayato.” He’s standing, Hayato didn’t even see him move, and on his feet he barely has the advantage of height but his age gives him breadth, strength in his shoulders and thunder in his features that overwhelms any coherent protest Hayato could grasp at. “My affectionate tolerance only extends so far,  _my son_. I  _will not stand_  for your tantrums in this.” Hayato can’t speak, lacks the voice even if there were the space of a breath between his father’s words for him to reply. There is no room for protest, no gap in his body to allow for himself; there is just panic, crippling and icy, until he can only stand fixed on the spot and stare wide-eyed at the fury in his father’s eyes.

“You will have no place in my kingdom should you refuse this,” the king says, the statement smooth and whole and utterly without mercy. “A coward is no son of mine.”

Hayato lurches, the accusation hitting home with more force than the physical blow he had half-hoped for to start. It’s the table he grabs at, fingers scraping desperately against the wood as the world swings dizzy-fast around him, and it’s the support that saves him from falling, that keeps his knees from giving way under him as his eyes come back into focus on those telltale blank pages.

There’s a moment of silence, hanging heavy with expectation in the little space between them. Hayato stares at the table, blinks hard, and when he lifts his head to meet his father’s gaze with his own, there are no tears, there is nothing but rage cresting hot against his cheekbones.

“I am no coward,” he spits, deliberately vicious with every word.

Something gives way in the king’s shoulders, the leading edge of tension bleeding out. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and there is no gentleness in his voice but there might be a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, the promise of future pride should Hayato perform well.

Hayato can remember a time he would have done anything to win that expression from his father. Now it just leaves him empty.


	19. Chance

“Advance,” Hayato calls out again, his throat beginning to ache with the force of the shout. It’s hardly like it needs to carry far; he has twenty men with him, if that, more intended for cleanup than anything else. They have ended up on the farthest reaches of the flank, where their kingdom’s greater numbers mean they are unlikely to encounter any but already-fallen enemies, and far more likely to have nothing but trees to consider while the fighting rages on miles to the east.

Hayato doesn’t care. He’s been numb with panic all day, the life-threatening reality of possible combat enough to finally overcome the fog that has enveloped him since his return. There’s some irony there, that the only times he has achieved anything like real engagement with the world in recent days have been due to fury or terror or both, but he lacks the attention to find it even darkly amusing. All his focus is spread thin over his surroundings, panic-taut in his periphery and clenching his fingers into fists on the reins of his horse until he’s sure the men around him -- older men, experienced, intended he suspects more as a bodyguard than to act as soldiers -- would laugh if not for his position.

He doesn’t care about that, either. There will be time enough for embarrassment later, when he’s off the field, when he’s not teetering on the verge of full-blown panic with every motion of his horse’s hooves.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline pumping through his veins in full replacement of his blood that lets him notice first. By any rights the scouts should have noticed the flutter of white cloth blowing from behind a tree, the telltale color of others’ presence. Maybe they’re scanning a different direction, or Hayato looks up at precisely the right moment to catch the giveaway offered by the wind. It doesn’t really make a difference. What matters is what happens, and what happens is:

“ _There_ ,” Hayato grates, his entire body seizing with a flood of terrified immediacy. “Ahead of us.” His shoulders hunch forward, his heels kick into the sides of his horse, and by the time he calls “ _Forward_ ” he’s already moving, accidentally bursting into the lead of the charge. There’s no time to think, no time to logic his way through his actions; there’s only a rush of muscle memory, his arm swinging around to slide his sword smooth from its sheath, and a flicker of regret, a half-thought apology to someone he hasn’t let himself think of since his father’s ultimatum.

Hayato is tense as they explode into the circle of trees, arm poised and ready to swing at the first sign of motion. There’s color, the shine of metal and the flutter of fabric, and for a moment it’s too much to take in, there are threats all around and no way to decide where to look. He’s turning, twisting in his seat as he tries to look at everything at once, but there’s no movement, and the color is all red, and then someone says, “These are done for,” and some tension in the air clears like electricity after a storm.

It’s obvious, when Hayato blinks the hyper-focus of adrenaline from his eyes. The bodies around them are slumped, face-down or slanted boneless against trees where they fall, and the ground underneath them is wet with blood that has soaked into the earth. The air is heavy, humid and sour when Hayato breathes in, and he didn’t know, before, that he could identify the smell of death without any prior experience. His stomach twists, lurches unpleasantly, and for the span of a heartbeat he wonders what the battle-hardened men around him will think if he vomits up what little breakfast he managed this morning.

Then he turns his head, and sees blue, and all thoughts of nausea vanish to a wave of numbing cold.

It doesn’t even feel like fear, for a moment. It feels like time has simply halted, the glare of the sun overhead paused as surely as Hayato’s breathing and the regular thump of his heart have stalled. He stares at the blue of the fabric, cloth too richly dyed for a simple soldier, and then he looks farther, to the dark hair laid bare by the helmet fallen a foot away, and then his sword slips from nerveless fingers and everything starts moving again with the jerky rapidity of time catching itself up.

“No,” he says, clear and careful and overloud in the air, and he swings a leg up over his saddle. “No,” again, and he’s on the ground, he’s turning and running over slippery ground. “ _No_ ” and he’s skidding to his knees, reaching out to drag roughly at a shoulder. There’s shouting, voices coming from a long way off and sounding farther with every heartbeat, the world receding away from him as he gets the limp form turned over so he can see familiar features, a soft mouth and eyelashes spread dark over gold-tan skin.

Hayato can’t breathe. Takeshi’s skin is smudged, dirt clinging to his jaw and caught at his cheek, his hair sweat-matted to his scalp and blood smeared down the left side of his face, but it’s unquestionably him, the shape of his shoulders familiar and heavy against Hayato’s arm. There’s an echo in Hayato’s ears -- he doesn’t hear the sound of the men rushing in behind him, doesn’t hear the rattle of armor or the scuff of boots. There’s just the sound of his blood rushing chill in his veins, horror setting in to sweep away all his gravity.

Then Takeshi’s head turns, his eyelashes flutter. There’s a whimper, a cough of an inhale, and everything is back in a rush, reality sweeping back to crush over Hayato as a hand closes on his shoulder, as outrage and concern drown out any coherency but the impulse of emotion from the men behind him.  
“He’s their  _prince_ ,” Hayato snaps, twisting back to fling the words like explosives at the crowd behind him. He can’t think through the way his arm tightens around Takeshi’s shoulder, the involuntary motion of his other to reach for the other boy’s waist. “Go get a  _fucking_  healer, you  _imbeciles_.”

Takeshi is smiling when Hayato looks back at him. Between the blood, and the dirt, and the way his eyes aren’t quite in-focus, Hayato is aware he should probably be more horrified than relieved. But it is relief in him, strong and hot and more real than anything he’s felt in days, and Takeshi’s smile is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“What are you  _doing_  here?” Hayato blurts, the words coming out harsh with emotion he can’t remember how to modulate. “You shouldn’t have been fighting at  _all_.”

Takeshi’s laugh is short, cut-off almost before it begins by a flinch of pain that hits Hayato like he’s been punched. “What are  _you_  doing here?” he parries, but on his lips the words are soft, slurring into affection to match the glow in his unfocused eyes.

“Shut up,” Hayato says, and he’s reaching up, pressing his fingers in against Takeshi’s jawline and catching his thumb at his hair. “You shouldn’t be talking, idiot.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, eyelashes shifting as he blinks overslow. “Hayato.”

“You never listen,” Hayato says, that same weird roughness tearing at his throat until he sounds more angry than the relief that is flooding him shaky and breathless. “Just wait for the healer, Takeshi.”

“We’re together,” Takeshi continues, as steadily as if he’s not hearing Hayato at all. “I have to tell you.”

“Don’t,” Hayato says, but when he takes a breath to continue it catches, builds tight and painful in his chest and he can’t speak at all. His eyes are blurring, his hands are starting to tremble, and Takeshi is still smiling, his eyes skimming over Hayato’s face like they can’t stay still.

“I love you,” he says, too clearly for Hayato to pretend he didn’t hear, and Hayato has to duck his head and shut his eyes against the soft of Takeshi’s mouth on the words. “I wanted to tell you before but.” There’s a pause, enough time for Hayato to gasp a choking inhale and enough time for him to hear the whine of hurt when Takeshi takes a breath of his own. When he speaks again it’s slower, drifting, like he’s not quite connected to the conversation. “It’s later, right?”

Hayato shakes his head without opening his eyes. “I’m not going to say it,” he manages, the words wrenching into the shape of tears in his throat to match the burn in his eyes. When he opens his eyes Takeshi is still watching him but his eyes are unfocused, they’ve landed against Hayato’s collar instead of at his face, and there’s a crease in his forehead, the edge of pain etching itself into his expression. “Takeshi. Takeshi, listen to me.”

The crease deepens. Takeshi flinches, shudders himself through another breath. “Mm.”

“ _Listen_ ,” Hayato repeats, and he’d shake him except that Takeshi’s going heavy against his arm, that for all the dirt on his face he’s stark white under his tan. “I’m not going to tell you, I’ll tell you next time, this isn’t going to be the last chance.” His voice is shaking, it’s thrumming fast as hummingbird wings in his throat, and Takeshi’s not focused on him at all anymore, his eyes are closing and his head is tipping to fall against Hayato’s arm. “ _Takeshi_ , Takeshi, don’t you  _dare_ ,” Hayato gasps, throat trying to close his words into a wail of desperate refusal. “Keep your  _fucking_  eyes open,  _look at me_.”

Takeshi makes a noise, a strange plaintive whimper catching in his chest, and for a moment his eyes come open again. But there’s no clarity in them, only hazed-over color, and when Hayato’s vision blurs out behind a screen of tears they fall shut, the full weight of unconsciousness dropping Takeshi boneless into his arms.

He doesn’t say the words. Even when Takeshi is clearly well past the point of hearing them, when Hayato would be the only one to know, he ties the confession into a promise in the back of his head, a bargain with fate like his silence is what’s keeping Takeshi breathing. It’s a desperate hope, with blood seeping into his sleeve and Takeshi still and deathly pale against him, but when it’s all he has left, Hayato will be as desperate as he needs to be.


	20. Listen

Hayato doesn’t turn around when the door eases open behind him.

“Go away,” he says, shoulders to the entryway and eyes holding fixed on Takeshi’s still face. “I don’t want to talk, Bianchi.”

“You said that this morning,” his sister’s voice declares. There’s the sound of footsteps, an approach Hayato is too worn-down to attempt to dissuade further; Bianchi stops over his shoulder, just shy of contact with the edge of the bed Hayato’s been leaning over for two days while he waits for the worst of the fallout to pass.

“Congratulations on your kingdom,” Hayato finally says, when the pause has stretched long enough to itch discomfort at the back of his neck.

“It’s not official,” Bianchi says. She moves again, around the foot of the bed; her fingers catch and trail over the sheets, and it’s all Hayato can do to not snap at her to stop  _touching_  Takeshi, can’t she see he’s hurt? “Just the same shouting you already heard.”

She sounds bored, disinterested, like the implications of Hayato’s very public and very  _loud_  disownment have nothing at all to do with her. Hayato can’t help but smile, a bitter twist at his mouth because there’s nothing else left to do, really. “Is it dying down at all?”

“It’s hard to tell.” Bianchi’s not looking at him; she’s considering Takeshi’s face, tipping her head to the side so her dark hair falls in a smooth sheet past her shoulder. Even in the relatively casual gown she’s wearing today, she looks more royal than Hayato has ever felt in all his life. “Mother’s upset about your choice of romantic interest, I think, but Father is definitely still furious about your departure from the battlefield more than anything else.”

“That’s a surprise,” Hayato deadpans. There’s tension all against the back of his neck, defensive strain hunching his shoulders like Bianchi is posing any kind of a threat to the boy lying still and silent under the white sheets. Hayato hardly feels he can be blamed for this. After giving up everything else for a single object, the least he can do it protect it with everything he has left.

Bianchi cuts her eyes sideways at him “You could do with a little more concern on your own behalf,” she points out. “You fretting isn’t helping him get better any faster, and there was a point when Father was raging about having you executed as a traitor.”

“He wouldn’t,” Hayato says, though there’s a chill along his spine that says  _he might_.

Bianchi’s smile is softer than he expects, turns her features into something more immediate than the untouchable, regal beauty she usually cultivates. “Of course he wouldn’t,” she admits. “But you really should think more of yourself. When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

“When was the last time I had a bed to call my own?” Hayato throws back. He’s aiming for a growl but it falls flat, all the edges worn down by the friction of exhaustion in his throat.

Bianchi shrugs, silent acquiescence to a hit. “Do you intend to stay here indefinitely, then?”

“Until he wakes up,” Hayato says. The words grate in his throat, dragged out of him to face down whatever Bianchi has to throw at his desperate correction -- logic, condemnation, pessimism, it doesn’t matter, he’s had them all en masse from everyone else who has come to speak to him.

He’s not expecting the sharp nod she gives, like he’s passed a test of some sort. “Good.” She looks back at Takeshi’s face, her fingers just skimming the sheets at the corner of the bed. “He’ll be happy to have someone waiting for him.”

Hayato blinks. There’s tension in his chest, like he’s aching to hold too much emotion all at the same time, and for a moment he can’t breathe to speak the words he knows he should. Finally:

“Thanks,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure Bianchi hears him. She doesn’t respond, at any rate; she’s looking at Takeshi still, her expression devoid of any judgment positive or negative and her fingers still brushing the sheets.

“He’s cute,” she finally allows, for all the world as if she’s giving a verdict. “I see why you like him.”

“What,” Hayato says.

“So,” Bianchi continues, brushing right over Hayato’s flatline response. “Were you sleeping together while he was here, or was that only after you volunteered yourself for the delegation?”

“ _What_ ,” Hayato says.

Bianchi turns, reaches for the chair pushed up against the wall, the unused match of the one that has become Hayato’s over the last two days. “I want to know,” she says with perfect calm, dragging the chair over and settling into it with every appearance of a child anticipating a story. “I already know about you denying your feelings to yourself--”

“I did  _not_ ,” Hayato chokes.

Bianchi’s smile has something of a knife-edge it in, amusement at what Hayato is absolutely sure is his expense. “You’re such a child, Hayato.” But then her eyes slide down, while Hayato is still spitting incoherent protest, dark eyes outlining the dyeless white of his shirt and skipping to the pale sheets under his elbows, like she’s drawing an invisible line between Hayato and Takeshi’s form, unmoving but for the shift of breathing against the white.

“Perhaps less so, now,” she allows, and something in Hayato cracks at the touch of almost-pride in her voice. His words die, his eyes burn, and when he ducks his head to stare at the sheets his vision is blurred with overhot moisture against his eyelids.

The silence is very long, this time. Hayato takes it, uses the drawn-out seconds to catch his breath and blink back the surge of unexpected emotion. It’s not until he’s drawn some modicum of composure back around himself that he raises his head, and Bianchi is still waiting, watching him with her inscrutably endless patience.

“We weren’t,” Hayato answers, finally, his voice tense with the fought-back tears but stripped of the defensive edge he layered on before. He looks away from Bianchi’s face, back down to the soft of Takeshi’s mouth, the dark of his hair ruffling against his forehead. “Not at first.”

The words come quickly, once he’s started. The reservation that has always made Bianchi seem so distant makes her an ideal audience; she doesn’t interrupt Hayato at all, barely blinks, just sits still across the bed and listens to Hayato talk for minutes, for an hour.

It’s strange to find how easy it is to talk when someone is willing to listen.


	21. Relief

Hayato doesn’t remember the last time he got a good night’s sleep. It had to be before the fight, before he was stripped the reassurance of a place in the world, before the confines of his world narrowed the the space of a chair and the width of a bed. But it was probably before that, too, because if he can’t remember sleeping well he can remember the dread, impending doom and the weight of depression joining forces to keep him hazy during the day and wide-eyed at night. So before that, too, and then he’s back too far, he doesn’t want to let himself think about that, not now. He avoids the memories as much as he can, even when he’s awake and idle with nothing to do but stare at features he memorized long ago, to fret the edges of clean-wrapped bandages with his eyes if not his fingertips.

Eventually the exhaustion builds up enough, leaves him so heavy and worn-down he thinks he could fall asleep on the floor if he had to. When it gets that bad he ends up collapsed over the edge of the bed for an hour, or spread out with his arm thrown wide, the weight of his arm across Takeshi’s legs to wake him if anyone tries to move the other boy while he sleeps.

That’s how he’s sleeping now, he realizes as he comes up from the depths of unconsciousness, dragging himself up to alertness in response to some stimulus he can’t yet place. His cheek is pressed into his sleeve, his head heavy against the uneven support of Takeshi’s legs, and he frowns as he places himself back in his sense of self, opens bleary eyes and tries to blink the cobwebs out of his mind.

Then “Hayato?” in a voice not his sister’s, and all the adrenaline in him hits his bloodstream at once.

He makes a weird gasping noise, the startled incoherent sound of someone coming fully awake in the gap between two heartbeats, and he’s jerking upright, all but flinging himself up even as pessimism sweeps in to crush down the surge of violent hope. There’s no way, it can’t be, it could be the doctor or a servant come to change the bandages or--

Gold eyes meet his, and everything, even the voice in Hayato’s head, goes silent.

“Oh,” he says, the word shocked open and clear of any emotion. “Takeshi.”

The smile Takeshi gives him is careful, easing onto the other boy’s face like he’s not quite sure of his movements, but the familiarity burns straight through Hayato’s body, kindles some flame gone dormant in his chest, and when he blinks the world is bright with color again.

“You,” Hayato says, takes a breath of air gone radiant with light. “You had me worried.”

“Ah.” Takeshi blinks, tries for a laugh; it seems to catch somewhere in his chest, twists into a flicker of pain on his features, but his smile lingers, goes soft in his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Hayato grates, and he has to look away from Takeshi’s eyes, then, it’s too much brightness to take at once. He reaches out instead, fits his fingers in against Takeshi’s left hand, the one not splinted and wrapped into immobility; it seems casual enough, in his head, but then Takeshi twists his hand over and palm-up, tightens his fingers carefully against Hayato’s, and he’s right back at the edge of tears again.

“Where are we?” Takeshi asks, slow on forming the words while Hayato is blinking fiercely to stem the burn in his eyes.

“The infirmary,” Hayato growls, dropping his voice an octave to try to cover the catch of tears. “Idiot.”

That gets him another breathless laugh, a squeeze of fingers against his. “Okay,” Takeshi says. “Where is the infirmary?”

“My castle,” Hayato says without thinking; then, in the first biting rush of memory, corrects: “My father’s castle.” He takes a breath, makes himself look up to meet Takeshi’s steady gaze. “You’re a hostage, technically.”

Takeshi doesn’t look around at their surroundings; he just keeps watching Hayato, eyes hazy with the weight of too much sleep but his fingers tight at the other boy’s. “What about you?”

Hayato flinches, looks down and away from the soft almost-sympathy in Takeshi’s gaze. Better to look at their hands, the tangle of their fingers the only steady thing in the world, to breathe in a deep lungful of air while he waits for the first crush of emotion to fade.

“I’m not really anything anymore,” he says to Takeshi’s fingertips. “I’m not welcome here, at least.” His laugh is dry, tearing raw in his throat. “And I don’t imagine your side will want much of me either.”

“I want you,” Takeshi says, soft and quick. When Hayato looks back up at him his gaze is steady, absent the wrenching pity he was afraid of seeing; there’s just the pressure at his hand, fingers digging in with more strength than he would have expected Takeshi capable of, under the circumstances.

“I love you,” Hayato says, sudden and harsh in his throat, and Takeshi’s features go blurry when he blinks. It takes him a moment to realize he can’t breathe, that the pressure in his chest is building unbearable heat under his skin; then he chokes an inhale, and it comes out as a sob, and he’s hunching in over the bed without thinking, relief at what he hasn’t lost as heavy as the ache for what he has.

Takeshi’s fingers slide free of his, come up to push into his hair instead, and he’s saying something, “Hayato, hey” gentle with comfort but Hayato can’t answer yet. There’s still too much tension in his body, the darkness of the possible future giving way to hope blinding even in its faint illumination, until he can’t calm even for Takeshi’s weak attempts at comfort, can only reach out to wrap an arm gentle around the other boy’s bandaged waist and sob himself hoarse on the relief and pent-up reaction to the stress of the last few days.

By the time he’s done he’s shaking, trembling helpless to exhaustion against the sheets of the bed, and he doesn’t want to lift his head to try to deal with the complexities of speech just yet. But Takeshi’s fingers are still in his hair, sliding through the strands like he’s untangling nonexistent knots with the motion, and when he says “Hayato” again it’s as warm and affectionate as if Hayato hasn’t spent the last several minutes falling to pieces on the bed alongside him. Some of the shivering fades at the sound, the reassurance of Takeshi’s fingers enough to push back the too-recent fears, and when Hayato takes a hiccuping breath it comes out as a sigh, his body giving in to the relaxation he has been fighting for so long.

He’s asleep before the movement of Takeshi’s fingers drifts into the still weight of sleep.


	22. Negotiation

Everything seems easier after Takeshi wakes up.

It’s the relief, Hayato thinks, the removal of the constant weight of panic over him that makes him feel so light with joy. It doesn’t make much sense -- he is still breathing borrowed air, still pressing his presence where he’s clearly not wanted -- but it’s true anyway, that he sleeps better with Takeshi’s fingers pulling idle at his sleeve even if he’s still hunched uncomfortably over the edge of the other’s bed, that he can keep his attention on the pages of the books Bianchi brings to him far better knowing Takeshi is breathing steady in healing sleep instead of the weight of dangerous unconsciousness. There’s hope in the air, the shape of a future Hayato can’t trust in but can let himself imagine, sometimes, when Takeshi’s sleep has left him free to stare at the other boy and see possibility in the shadows of his eyelashes.

And then the ambassador comes.

They don’t get any warning before his arrival. Takeshi’s propped up on a half-dozen pillows, his broken arm still locked into immobility but his left free to play with Hayato’s sleeve, a distraction Hayato can’t even manage anger at in spite of the total destruction it wrecks on his attempts to read. He’s not looking at the page in front of him -- he’s leaning in sideways, actually, pressing his shoulder against Takeshi’s and watching the way the other boy’s gaze is going hazy in expectation of a kiss -- and he doesn’t hear the sound of the door coming open anymore than the tread of approaching footsteps. It’s not until there’s a cough, the abrupt sound of a throat clearing, that Hayato jerks back, startling away from Takeshi’s mouth so they’re both caught wide-eyed and guilty by a man dressed in Takeshi’s royal blue and Bianchi, just lowering her hand from her mouth after the pointed sound.

“Your highness,” she offers, carefully formal on the words, offers Takeshi a nod that is nearly but not quite deferential. Takeshi nods in return, his mouth tight on what Hayato suspects is a giggle of nervous energy, and for a moment Hayato is forming the words of an excuse, a snappish remark about giving more warning next time. Then he realizes that there’s no greeting forthcoming for him, that the ambassador and Bianchi both are as fixed on Takeshi as if he’s not even present, and a chill of realization runs down his spine.

It’s hard to get used to being no one of importance.

“Hello,” Takeshi offers, his voice still taut with that unvoiced adrenaline. He lifts his left hand, offering his fingers in the outline of a wave. “I know you, don’t I?”

The man ducks his head. It’s strange to see that casual deference applied to someone else, Hayato thinks, odd to see how easily this stranger gives way before a boy currently unable to sit up unassisted. “Basil,” he supplies as he lifts his head again. “I’ve come on your father’s behalf to negotiate the terms of your ransom.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says, sounding a little faint. Hayato glances at his sideways; he looks pale, the smile usually clinging to his mouth while he’s awake gone. “Right. Yes.”

“The details of the treaty are still being discussed,” Bianchi puts in. Her head is up, her shoulders back, everything about her position a model of regal calm. Next to Basil’s formal self-control, it would be impossible to know they are representatives of two sides of a war that was occurring not three weeks before. “But we are confident we can come to a decision amenable to all parties.”

Hayato doesn’t need to have heard the discussions to understand what she’s saying. There’s not much Takeshi’s kingdom can offer except surrender, not if they want their prince back.

“We will have an agreement in place by the time you are fit to be moved,” Basil says without any hint of bitterness in his tone at what they must be giving up in the negotiations. “I am glad to see you well.”

“Right,” Takeshi says, and then “What about Hayato?” with a strange edge to his voice, the threat of a shadow at the back of his throat.

Hayato was just fitting himself into the lack of attention. Now it’s all on him at once, Basil’s brief glance and his sister’s sympathetic consideration and Takeshi, Takeshi reaching sideways without looking to fumble clumsy fingers around his wrist.

“We’ll do what we can,” Basil says, the lack of commitment clear in the waver of his voice. “The negotiations are as yet incomplete.”

“I’m not going without him,” Takeshi says, and his voice is that of a stranger, his throat resonant with all the royal self-assurance Hayato never expected to hear from him. “He’s coming with me.”

“Your highness, it may be impossible.”

“No.” It’s not a shout, it’s not even a growl, but Hayato doesn’t dare look up, doesn’t think he can stand to see the shadow he can hear darkening Takeshi’s eyes. The fingers at his wrist are twisting tighter, pressing hard enough that Hayato would wince if he weren’t so cold at the idea of losing what he’s only just started to trust in again. “I won’t go.”

“You’d rather stay here?” It’s clearly intended as a rhetorical question, however gently delivered, and just as clearly Hayato can feel the unexpected answer grinding hard against his hand. He stares at Takeshi’s fingers rather than looking up, uncertain if he’s flushing with embarrassment or with the threat of tears and unwilling to show either to his audience.

“Yes,” Takeshi says, and his hand is going slack, his fingers sliding down to fit between Hayato’s before the other can decide if he wants to drag his hand free entirely, to slip away and leave them to this discussion of his relative value in peace. “I would.”

There is a pause, fraught with tension; Takeshi is crushing Hayato’s hand now, Hayato can see the strain pressing white against his knuckles. He can’t tighten his own fingers, can’t lift his head, can’t think; there’s just cold, the storm coming for him again, the chill he will never be able to escape.

Then Bianchi clears her throat again. “Hayato.”

Hayato looks up, startled into reaction by the sound of her voice. Bianchi is watching him, her arms relaxed at her sides and hands folded into gentle interlacing in front of her. She looks calm, at ease, her position far more comfortable than Takeshi’s anxious hold on Hayato’s unresponsive fingers or the stress-tight hunch of Basil’s shoulders.

“Do you have a vested interest in remaining within the kingdom?” Her tone is level, as straightforward as if she is asking him about the weather.

Hayato blinks, unclear on her goal and unable to read it from the dark of her eyes. “Not particularly. I don’t have anywhere to stay here, you know that.”

“Mm,” Bianchi hums, then glances sideways at Basil. “Declarations of exile have been known to be overturned, in the past.” Hayato can feel his forehead tensing, irritation settling in -- when has their father  _ever_  gone back on one of his declaration, Bianchi should know better than that -- but Bianchi is continuing, still watching Basil instead of Hayato. “And male heirs are preferred, when it comes time to pass on dominion of the kingdom.” Down, at her dress, her hands unfolding to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric. “Of course, if a potential heir disenfranchises himself, of his own volition, he does so permanently and without hope of rescinding it.” And up again, her eyes locking with Hayato’s. “He becomes simply another citizen, then, free to do as he pleases.”

Hayato may lack Bianchi’s penchant for political machinations, but he can recite back a statement when he’s fed it. “I’ll do it,” he says, fast and hard as his fingers seize tight on Takeshi’s painful hold. “Anything I need to do, I’ll do it.”

Bianchi rolls her eyes, exasperation at this undermining of whatever elaborate verbal dance she was initiating, and Basil rocks back on his heels, the shock across his features knocking all his strain clear off his face. But Takeshi sighs, a breathless sound of relief, and when Hayato shifts his hand the fingers digging against his skin go gentle, ease off from the edge of desperation they had, and it’s enough.


	23. Resolution

There are far fewer people in the room than Hayato expected.

His formal resignation of his claim to his father’s throne is to be done in one of the enormous halls, the ones that are only ever used for official pronouncements to hundreds of people. He’s been provided with a change of clothes as well, crisp and perfectly, painfully white, if absent any of the color and embroidery to which he is accustomed. Between the clothes and the space, he is anticipating a crowd, dozens if not hundreds of people to hear his formal statement. But when the doors are pulled open in front of him there is nothing but space, empty and hollow and echoing, the path to the cluster of people at the end made longer by the quiet.

It’s a longer walk than he remembered. There’s no one at his side or pacing out at his heels, nothing to relieve the sound of his boots echoing in the vast empty space of the hall as he approaches. His heart is pounding, his breath catching desperate with adrenaline in his throat, until by the time he approaches what minimal audience he has he’s dizzy with lack of oxygen and faintly nauseated from the way his stomach is swooping.

He comes to a halt a little distance from the throne. It’s never seemed imposing before, when he was approaching from the other side; in this direction it seems enormous, his father’s stony expression weighted with all the disapproval Hayato has earned from him over his entire life. The seat next to his father is empty -- indication of the queen’s absence -- and Hayato isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or hurt that she isn’t here to see this. Bianchi  _is_  present, stoic and still over their father’s shoulder, and there’s a handful of advisors, men Hayato has seen but doesn’t remember. They’re not important at the moment; even Bianchi pales in comparison. This is a conversation between himself and his father.

“Hayato,” his father says. The name sounds like judgment itself, the final echoing toll of a funeral bell. “You have deserted your position on the battlefield, colluded with the enemy in secret, and played the role of a traitor rather than that of a member of this household.” His tone leaves no space for argument, and Hayato has heard all this before; it’s nothing new, to have Takeshi’s smile and laugh and warmth condensed into icy scorn in his father’s voice. “You intend to disavow your right to inherit my throne, your position within this royal family, and your citizenship of this nation.”

Hayato keeps his head up, his shoulders back, his eyes hard. “I do.”

His father’s chin goes up, his eyes flare hot with barely-restrained fury. But there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been shouted over dozens of times, and they have an audience, however small, and that means they have some thin veneer of formality to maintain.

“You are resolute in this?” Hayato’s father asks. “This is no game, Hayato. Once done you will have forsworn all connection to myself and to this country.”

Hayato tosses his head, the loose fall of his hair shifting around his face, musters as much haughty sincerity into his voice as he can find. “Don’t insult me,” he says, “I’ll show you my resolution.”

It’s very quick, after that. There’s only a few words to say, near-repetitions of what has come before enough to sever the official bonds between them, to render father into king and prince into nothing. Hayato feels bare as the words come free of his mouth, even before he has reached for the pen offered him to set his name to the documents sealing his words into permanency. The shirt over his shoulders feels too-thin, the air moving more easily across the back of his neck and along his spine, and all his movements are stiff with uncertainty, like the stripping of his title has taken his coordination with it.

No one speaks, after it is done. There is a pause, Hayato hesitating at the foot of the dais; he knows better than to search for sympathy in his father’s anger, but they hold each other’s gaze for a long moment anyway, each looking for something in the other and finding nothing.

Then he steps back, and offers a bow, the lowest of his life to date. The motion floods his body with electricity, sends him dizzy with the action and leaves him lightheaded as he turns to proceed back towards the faraway doors. It’s a strange feeling, to have all the responsibility and reassurance of his position stripped from him at once, and by his own words; half of what he’s learned in life is useless, now, much of the rest barely applicable or inappropriate. But the walk out is easier than the strides in, each step smoother the farther he goes, and by the time he pushes the door open, Hayato’s mouth is pulling into something that is very, very near a smile.

He’s leaving his title behind, but he’s gaining something priceless.


	24. Farewells

“I still think it’s too soon for you to be travelling,” Hayato grumbles in a tone barely loud enough for Takeshi to hear.

No one’s listening to him anyway. There’s a handful of people in attendance, escorts for their trip back to Takeshi’s home and servants ready to leap to attention at a word from...well, anyone not Hayato, at this point. Even Bianchi is here to stand in for the king and queen; Hayato is faintly impressed at their dedication to never seeing him again, and mostly relieved that he’ll be spared any kind of dramatic explosion as he leaves. Bianchi’s near the front, speaking in low tones with Basil, and Hayato doesn’t have any need to listen in on the polite nothingness passing for communication between them.

By any reasonable standard Takeshi should be there, too; he is the reason for all this, in the end, and his political status is still entirely intact. But he’s been hovering at Hayato’s shoulder since they left the infirmary, like he’s making up for his inability to move while he was confined to bed by sticking as close as he can now, and Hayato doesn’t have it in him to tell him to leave. Takeshi smiles, now, a bright flash of joy that makes it all the way to his eyes, borne on the surging energy he only recently recaptured, and there’s no reasonable way he ought to be able to get his horse in so close and reach for Hayato’s sleeve with just one good arm, but he manages somehow, fingers catching and tugging idly at the other’s clothes as his eyes go warm.

“I’m fine.” He’s tipping in, now, his gaze dropping to Hayato’s mouth, and Hayato is very sure he should pull away but he doesn’t. Takeshi is tugging hard at his sleeve, he can’t draw back now without risking the other’s safety if he throws him off-balance, and he doesn’t want to move away, anyway. It’s been too long with just overly-careful kisses in the infirmary, fingers brushing gently through hair instead of across bare skin, and Hayato has had every reason for patience but that hasn’t stopped his store from running low.

“You are a fucking idiot,” he says, drops a hand off the reins so he can reach out and make a fist of Takeshi’s shirt instead. It’s heavier than his, well-cut on royal orders, and even if the color is all wrong it looks good on him, makes him look real and alive in a way the white bandages in the infirmary never did. “The things I do for you,” and Hayato is leaning in well over the point of stability to meet the offer in Takeshi’s eyes with a kiss. It’s at an awkward angle, the strain of them both leaning forward preventing anything more than a moment of rushed friction, but Takeshi makes a noise like he’s begging for more, and for a heartbeat Hayato considers giving it to him, sanity and balance be damned.

Then his horse shifts, and instinct overrides impulse, and he’s pushing away to flail desperately for his balance again. Takeshi’s hold on his sleeve goes, the other boy rocks forward to catch himself at the edge of his saddle, and Hayato has a moment of panic for Takeshi’s barely-healed injuries before he starts to laugh, the easy burst of sound enough to assuage any concerns Hayato has at the present moment.

“Be  _careful_ ,” Hayato growls as he gets both hands back on the reins and his horse back under control. “If you hurt yourself I swear I’m going to kill you, Takeshi.”

“After all that work to keep him alive?” a voice asks, and Hayato jerks his attention up to Bianchi. She’s watching them with her arms folded, the very corner of her mouth tight like she’s holding back a smile; Hayato has no idea how long she’s been there, but the unexpected interruption alone is enough to flush his cheeks burning with self-consciousness.

“Shut up,” he snaps before recalling who she is, and who he is, now, and  _where_  they are, with an audience of some dozen people likely to be less than forgiving of his slip into impropriety. But Bianchi doesn’t rebuke him, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow; she just smiles, a sudden burst of affection so rare it shocks the embarrassed irritation right out of Hayato’s blood. He’s still gaping at her in stunned silence when she tosses her head and waves a hand.

“Wait over there,” she orders, regal certainty back in full force. “I need a moment alone with Prince Takeshi.”

Hayato doesn’t move. He narrows his eyes instead, fingers tightening on the leather under his palms. “What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to have a conversation,” Bianchi says, her tone completely level. “One which doesn’t concern you.” When Hayato still doesn’t move she sighs, offers a flicker of what might be an eyeroll in a less composed expression. “I have no intention of assassination, Hayato. I’ll return him to your tender care as soon as I’m done.”

Hayato flushes again at that, debates the relative merits of continued resistance versus the embarrassment likely to result from whatever else Bianchi might say. But he has no good reason to refuse, other than painful curiosity, and Takeshi is blinking from one of them to the other with complete unconcern all over his face, and finally Hayato twists his mouth and ducks his head and guides his horse sideways by several feet.

It’s a short conversation, after all that. He’s well out of earshot of Bianchi’s carefully quiet speech, and if he can see the way Takeshi smiles at whatever she is saying he can’t make out the movement of his lips clearly enough to make even a guess at his response. Takeshi glances at him, once, but it’s not like Hayato didn’t know who they were talking about to begin with, and his irritated curiosity can hardly get any  _worse_.

He’s prickling with jittery energy by the time Takeshi nods and Bianchi turns away to join Hayato. Her expression is utterly composed, absent any trace of self-consciousness about whatever she was just saying, even when Hayato frowns at her from his advantage of height.

“What the fuck were you saying?” he demands.

Bianchi looks up at him, her gaze not allowing that she’s heard his question at all. “Hayato. Get down.”

Hayato glares at her. “Why?”

Bianchi blinks. In the shadow of her eyelashes her gaze goes soft, eases itself into human warmth, and Hayato’s chest goes tight with a pained emotion that is something between gratitude and hurt.

“Because I want to say goodbye,” Bianchi says.

Hayato gets down.

They don’t say very much, in the end. With his feet on the ground Bianchi has the advantage of height on him, if barely, enough that when Hayato ducks his head to hide the tears prickling at his eyes his face ends up pressed against her shoulder as she wraps her arms around him. It’s weird to be held, strange to have his sister’s arms gentle around him, and he can’t pick apart the pressure in his chest into distinct emotions but he can’t stop crying either, caught in shuddering waves of relief and adrenaline and loss so strong it’s a long moment before he can even get his arms up to return her embrace. On his own he’s not sure he’d be allowed to linger without interruption, but with Bianchi no one speaks, no one comes to pull them apart.

It’s later, after some untracked period of time, that Hayato catches his breath, and Bianchi lets him go, and they step apart. He swipes at his eyes, the sleeve of his shirt rough against the tender-swollen skin, and by the time he dares to look up there’s no moisture left on Bianchi’s face either, even if her eyes look far redder than he’s ever seen them before.

“You did well,” she says, her voice clear and steady and unmistakably proud, and Hayato’s throat goes tight again with the threat of another wave of tears. “Be happy.”

She saves him the impossibility of trying to speak by turning away, moving out to bid a final farewell to the escort, and by the time she’s done Hayato has managed to get himself back on his horse and has cleared his throat of the worst of his emotion.

Takeshi is watching him as he falls back into position. Hayato glances at him, frowning at the possibility of comment, but the other boy doesn’t say anything about the flush of color on his face. He just looks down at Hayato’s wrist, reaches out to touch his sleeve again like he’s grounding himself.

“What did she say to you?” Hayato asks, willing his voice into the most clarity he can manage. He still sound gruff, the words dragging against the lingering roughness in his throat, but they come out clear enough for comprehension.

Takeshi shrugs, still working over the edge of Hayato’s sleeve. “Lots of things.” He glances up, the corner of his mouth going soft into a smile to match the affection in his eyes. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You were talking about me,” Hayato says, rather than asks.

Takeshi’s smile flashes wider, his eyes go softer. “Yeah.” He drops Hayato’s sleeve, reaches out to hold onto his reins one-handed as the gates in front of them start to come open. “She said she’d have me assassinated if I hurt you.”

“Oh for  _fuck’s_  sake,” Hayato groans.

Takeshi’s laugh comes easy, spilling past his lips like water, and Hayato doesn’t want to smile but the tears have left him defenseless to the ever-contagious delight of Takeshi’s amusement.

“Come on,” Takeshi says, and his voice is an invitation all on its own. “Let’s go.”


	25. Cover

It starts to rain as they’re finishing dinner.

There’s not much to it at first; it’s a drizzle more than anything else, barely enough to be an inconvenience. But Basil looks up to consider the sky with a critical eye, and when he announces, “We should get under cover before it gets worse,” no one puts up a word of protest.

Hayato certainly doesn’t. The damp collecting against his loose hair is enough to be unpleasant as it is; it’ll only get worse if it soaks into his shirt, and he’s almost done eating anyway. He studiously doesn’t look at Takeshi, sitting so close to him their knees are touching, and definitely not at the tent set up for them both to share; better if he keep his thoughts in the present rather than getting distracted by possibilities of the very near future. Still. He’s nearly done, another bite and a quick motion to brush lingering crumbs off his shirt, and then it’s only reasonable that he retreat to the cover of the tent to kick his boots free, to keep himself dry more than from any kind of impatience to achieve some level of privacy. Takeshi’s still recovering, after all, his arm still tied up in the support of a sling, and he’s likely exhausted from the travel and--

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, dropping to fall alongside him. Hayato looks over at his name, reflex too immediate to repress, and Takeshi is too close, his eyes are huge and he’s starting to smile, the warm wide expression that makes him look like he’s glowing from the inside out. Even the exhausted pale of his cheeks isn’t enough to dim the pleasure written all over his expression or to hide the softness in his eyes when he leans in to bump Hayato’s shoulder as he drags his boots off. “Did you get enough to eat?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Hayato growls, quietly, because he can feel the eyes of every member of their escort on the pair of them. “You should be resting.”

“I’ll rest,” Takeshi soothes, but he’s not retreating back into the tent, doesn’t actually show the least sign of moving. “I’m fine, Hayato, really.”

“Shut up,” Hayato snaps, reaches around to push gently against Takeshi’s shoulder to urge him farther into the space made shadowy by the clouds overhead. Takeshi goes, laughing in easy capitulation, and Hayato tugs at the tent flaps, fumbles clumsily at the ties until they fall loose to let the weight of the canvas drag them shut. He slides backwards, in over the pair of bedrolls laid out for the two of them, and if he’s embarrassed by how close the bedding is arranged -- actually touching all along the middle line -- there’s gratitude far sharper in his chest, an anxious knot unwinding itself when he reaches back and touches Takeshi’s shoulder without trying.

“Hayato?” Takeshi’s voice is whisper-soft in the darkness, like he’s speaking in expectation of a far later hour than it is in actuality. A hand comes up, fingers feeling out Hayato’s wrist and sliding up his arm, and there’s another laugh, fainter and softer than the first. “Wow, I can’t see you at all.”

“Your eyes will adjust,” Hayato says without really thinking. He’s shifting backwards, centering himself on what is ostensibly his side of the tent, but he keeps reaching out, fumbling blind in the near-absence of light to touch a knee, an elbow, a feathery lock of hair. “It’s not like you really need to see anything anyway, right?”

“I want to see you.” Takeshi’s voice is soft, nearly plaintive in the dark. The touch at Hayato’s arm drags up, catches at the ends of his hair, and Hayato knows he’s in trouble in the breath before Takeshi’s thumb catches against his jaw and fingers skim against his neck.

“Want help with your shirt?” Hayato manages, fighting for any kind of coherency as Takeshi’s fingers slide up under his ear and press into his hair.

“Okay,” Takeshi says, so close Hayato almost startles at the heat of the words on his lips. He’s leaning in before he thinks, reflexive response to the proximity, and their mouths catch together for a moment before he can recover himself. Takeshi hums satisfaction over his lips, turns to angle in closer, and even when Hayato draws away he doesn’t make it far.

“Everyone’s going to know what we’re doing,” he hisses, an undertone that barely makes it over the sound of the rain hitting the tent and won’t make it past the canvas at all. Takeshi’s shirt is falling open under his fingers, the rich cloth parting like water to the touch, and tired or no Takeshi is leaning in closer, a knee fitting between Hayato’s by touch rather than sight while the hand at his hair braces against his neck.

“They already suspect,” Takeshi says against the corner of his mouth, sounding soft and liquid and overheated. It’s not an argument, not really, but the soft of his mouth is; Hayato twists the last of the other’s buttons open, pushes the shirt half-off his shoulder, and when he reaches back it’s to slide his hand down between Takeshi’s shirt and undershirt, to fit his fingers in against the silky-thin fabric warm from proximity to Takeshi’s skin.

“God.” The undershirt is soft under his fingers, slides free of Takeshi’s pants so he can fit his fingers in underneath to press against bare skin. Takeshi shudders at the contact, ducks his head like he’s seeking out another kiss, but Hayato dodges back, keeps gasping at the overhot air in the dark space rather than capitulating. “They all must think I’m crazy.” His hand fits in against Takeshi’s waist, slides sideways to fit into the curve of his spine, and Takeshi whines at his mouth, arches himself in to press flush against Hayato’s shirt.

“I don’t,” Takeshi volunteers. He rocks up over his knees, takes an overlarge breath of air against Hayato’s hair. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“You wouldn’t,” Hayato huffs. “Let go of me, I can’t get your shirt off.” Takeshi’s fingers slide away obediently and Hayato extricates his hand from the other’s skin, unloops the sling on Takeshi’s still-bandaged arm so he can push the heavy shirt off his shoulders. The undershirt goes next, a little more complicated to work up over Takeshi’s head and off his arm, but then it’s free as well, and this time when Hayato reaches out blindly it’s just warm skin his fingers touch.

“What am I even going to  _do_  when we arrive?” he asks, the words falling easy into the darkness as Takeshi’s good hand finds the bottom of his own shirt and starts to urge it up off his chest. Hayato lifts his arm, lets Takeshi drag the clothing up over his head, and then he’s free too, shaking his hair back around his shoulders as Takeshi hums a wordless note of pleasure. “You can hardly keep me hidden away in your rooms all the time.”

“Mmm,” Takeshi purrs, the sound dipping low and delighted until Hayato is grateful for the growing volume of raindrops hitting the tent over their heads. There’s motion, Takeshi’s lips pressing against Hayato’s cheekbone, and Hayato can feel the warm of his breath when he sighs. “I’m going to declare you my consort.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not like Hayato has had any lack of evidence of Takeshi’s sincerity, not like he’s been doubting his own very permanent commitment. But it still is shocking, somehow, the title sparking through him with a promise of belonging, of a place to fit himself, and when he reaches to grab for stability it’s Takeshi’s hip that ends up under his hand.

“Fuck,” he says, clear and too-loud even with the cover of the rain. “Are you serious?”

Takeshi’s laugh is faint, more a cut-off exhale than real sound. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Hayato rolls his eyes in the dark, grateful for the shadows that cover the helpless smile at his mouth. “Yeah,” he growls. “I exiled myself from my kingdom and followed you across the country, but you’re right, this is asking too much of me.”

“Aww,” Takeshi laughs. Hayato pushes at his hip, urges him back down over the unseen soft of the bedrolls; they end up sprawled out next to each other, Takeshi’s fingers sliding against Hayato’s neck and down his shoulder while Hayato traces along the top of Takeshi’s pants to find the laces at the front. “Isn’t there anything I can do to persuade you?”

“We’ll see,” Hayato purrs, like he’s really turning the possibility over in his mind as he fits his fingers under Takeshi’s laces to tug them loose. Takeshi hisses a quick inhale, tips his hips up towards Hayato’s touch, and Hayato grins into the shadows, leans in close enough for his mouth to brush warm against Takeshi’s jaw.

“Hold still,” he orders as the cloth comes loose and open under his touch. “You’re supposed to be resting.” Takeshi’s burning to the touch, hot and hard against Hayato’s fingers, and it’s a loss to pull away from the prospect of a kiss but it’s worth it for the sharp startled inhale Takeshi takes as Hayato starts to move down, the way the hand at Hayato’s shoulder pushes sideways to make a fist in his hair.

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, loud enough to hear clearly, and Hayato has to shut his eyes even to the darkness around them, has to press his forehead in against the tremor of Takeshi’s stomach while he composes himself.

“Quiet,” he says, and Takeshi shivers again, his fingers pushing hard over Hayato’s scalp. “Everyone will hear you, shut up.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says. Hayato isn’t sure he’s listening, not really, but it’s been weeks since they were this close and he doesn’t have the patience to push for certain comprehension.

“Just stay still,” he says, and slides down the last few inches to lick against the salty-slick head of Takeshi’s cock. There’s a choking inhale over him, the start of a groan before Takeshi audibly catches himself, and the fingers in Hayato’s hair go tense and desperate in exchange for the sound. Hayato’s thoughts are hot and blurry, everything outside this darkened space drifting into unimportance, and he’s sucking up against Takeshi’s length, catching his lips past the ridge of the head of his cock and licking hard at the bitter salt clinging to the hot skin. Takeshi is shaking, gasping little stuttering inhales and dragging hard against Hayato’s hair, but Hayato doesn’t try to hold him to stillness or pull away to demand silence. The rain is loud enough, he tells himself, the patter of water echoing on the canvas over them as much cover as the tent walls, and Takeshi’s fingers are pressing against his scalp and Takeshi’s hips are rocking up against the brace of his fingers, and then Hayato tightens his mouth and shifts his tongue and Takeshi comes apart under him all at once. The hand at his hair goes slack, the building tension in Takeshi’s body melts away, and Hayato’s mouth is full of sticky salt, the taste burning heat against the back of his tongue to stifle the whine of surprise he makes.

It’s easy to swallow, at least, far easier than an alternative method of cleanup; Hayato pulls back while Takeshi is still shivering breathlessly, tugs his pants back into place and slides back up over the bedding to reach out and touch his fingers to Takeshi’s face.

“That was fast,” he observes, not even able to muster much teasing around the molten heat in his throat. Takeshi’s laughter is hot against his lips, he’s turning in instinctively to meet Hayato’s motion, and for a moment conversation is lost between their mouths.

“It’s been weeks,” Takeshi manages when Hayato draws back, the words still shivering with the heat Hayato can feel humming under his hold at Takeshi’s hip. “And I’m no good with my left hand.”

“Does that mean I’m on my own?” Hayato asks, the pout in his tone more for show than anything else. He’s anxious with desire, fire licking up along his spine to fill in for the worry he’s nursed over the whole length of Takeshi’s recovery, but this is more than he was hoping to get before they make it to their destination, the satisfaction of Takeshi humming pleasure against him enough to sate the sharp-edged want in his chest. He’s not expecting the shaky laugh Takeshi gives against his mouth, the fingers at his hair sliding down his chest to the front of his pants, and he’s still drawing in a sharp startled breath when Takeshi’s fingers press against him through the fabric.

“I can manage,” Takeshi says, and then he’s moving, wiggling down against the bedrolls before Hayato can convince himself he should stop him. He  _is_  clumsy with his left hand -- his attempts at Hayato’s laces are fumbling at best and ineffective at worst -- and Hayato only holds out for the space of a startled inhale before he’s reaching down himself to work the clothing open.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he warns, but Takeshi is kissing at his skin, the gentle friction of his tongue tracing the line of Hayato’s hip, and Hayato is shivering with the heat of his breath before he even has his pants open. Takeshi’s left hand closes at his hip as soon as the fabric is loose, his thumb settling in like it was meant to press into Hayato’s skin, and then Hayato’s cock is in front of Takeshi’s mouth, the humid heat of the other boy’s breathing spilling over him.

“Fuck,” he says, louder than he intends, and he’s reaching out to fit his fingers in against the back of Takeshi’s head as the other boy opens his mouth and touches his tongue in against the underside of Hayato’s cock. Hayato’s eyes are wide in spite of the darkness, his mouth open and breathless, and Takeshi is humming a long sustained note of satisfaction as he slides in to take Hayato deeper into his mouth. Hayato’s tension comes unwound along his spine, unravels into heat in his blood, and he doesn’t think before he arches forward to rock into Takeshi’s mouth.

There’s an apology on his tongue for the impulse, an attempt to draw back from the force of his motion, but Takeshi groans something unintelligible with heat and tightens his hold at Hayato’s hip to keep him where he is. Hayato hesitates for a breath, clinging to whatever restraint he has left to him for a span of heartbeats; then Takeshi tightens his lips, licks up over him, and it’s gone, he’s shutting his eyes and gasping and thrusting forward, bracing Takeshi in place so he can slide farther into the heat of the other’s mouth. The sound of the rain is blurring into steam, the shadows filling his vision flickering hot and bright-edged, and he’s barely clinging to silence, choking back the sound in his throat into just telltale heavy breathing too quiet to be heard outside the walls of the tent. Takeshi’s hair is soft, his lips are hot with friction, and Hayato can’t tell if it’s Takeshi’s tongue or the vibration of noise in the back of his throat jolting electricity up his spine and he doesn’t care, it’s enough to have Takeshi’s mouth on him and Takeshi’s hair fitting between his wide-spread fingers.

“Shit,” he says, clear and breathless. “Takeshi, I’m--” and Takeshi’s fingers tighten against his hip, and Hayato’s gone, toppling over into shuddering satisfaction that swamps all his senses into overheated pleasure for a few endless heartbeats. His fingers in Takeshi’s hair fall slack, go gentle instead of bracing, and by the time he can take a breath and blink at the dark inside of the tent he feels like the tension of weeks has dissipated to leave him boneless and melted over the bedding.

Takeshi shifts back up over the bedrolls while Hayato is still staring unseeing into the dark, contemplating possible coherency and not able to think through the value of any rational communication. There’s a breath at his mouth, a humming note of satisfaction, and Hayato leans in without thinking to press his lips to Takeshi’s. He tastes like salt, the weight of bitter heat clinging to his tongue when Hayato licks into his mouth; it makes Hayato smile, satisfaction pulling at his lips until he has to draw back just to smile warm into the shadows. Takeshi follows, trailing his movement like he’s on a string until the soft of his lips bumps the corner of Hayato’s mouth. Hayato can feel Takeshi’s sigh, the slow pleasure of it as the other boy lets his arm fall around his waist and eases into languid relaxation against him.

“I love you,” Takeshi says, faint and warm with exhaustion.

Hayato heaves a sigh, shuts his eyes to the whisper of Takeshi’s breathing against his jaw. “Yeah,” he allows, aiming for rough casualness he falls far short of to land somewhere around tenderness instead. “I know you do.” Takeshi laughs, presses in closer against him, and Hayato reaches to settle a hand at his hip in casual possessiveness. He holds the words on his tongue, patience lingering along with the warmth in his veins.

He can wait as long as he wants. Takeshi will still be here in the morning.


	26. Welcome

By the time the door opens to let him into the entrance hall, Hayato has resigned himself to the worst.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” is what Takeshi had said, pressing affection against his fingers and flashing him a smile so warm Hayato almost doesn’t see the shadow of worry in his eyes, wouldn’t at all if he weren’t looking for it. But he is, and he does, and he’s not really surprised when five minutes are followed by ten, when a half hour passes without the summons he’s waiting for.

At least it’s quiet. He can’t hear the shouting that would accompany this conversation were their positions reversed, and that seems tentatively promising. But the longer he waits the darker his mood dips, until he can’t even manage to keep his shoulders straight under the lines of the dark shirt borrowed from Takeshi’s closet. By the time the door eases open he’s slumped against the wall alongside it, picking at the mud of travel caught at his boots and trying not to think about what he’ll do if Takeshi’s request is rejected. He looks up at the sound, expecting a servant or similar, but it’s Takeshi himself, flashing another smile and reaching out to pull Hayato to his feet. He looks a little better -- there’s a hint of color in his cheeks, now, rather than the nervous pallor he had when he disappeared into the room -- but Hayato can’t take a breath of relief yet, can barely get his hand to loosen on Takeshi’s fingers.

“Come,” Takeshi says, his tone dropping into the casual command of born royalty, and kicks the door open so he can lead Hayato into the room. Hayato’s expecting the hold at his fingers to go slack as they step inside, but it doesn’t; if anything Takeshi tightens his grip, cutting off the possibility of the other sliding his hand free. By the time Hayato lifts his head to look where they’re headed he’s flushed with self-consciousness, hyper-aware of the way Takeshi’s fingers fit against his, and feeling decidedly out of his element as he approaches the king and queen.

They’re not sitting. Hayato had expected a formal reception for his confrontation with a pair of rulers to beg for their leniency with regards to his relationship with their son. But they’re standing instead, on level with him and Takeshi, and if they’re well-dressed it’s nothing beyond the ordinary silks and satins of their position. The king is smiling, even, a lopsided grin so like his son’s Hayato is taken aback, and if the queen looks less outright pleased the considering tilt of her head isn’t actively aggressive either.

“Father, Mother,” Takeshi says, his voice carrying to fill the space of the room. “This is Hayato.”

It’s far from the formal introduction Hayato was expecting. There’s a distinct lack of titles, for one thing, none of the stilted tone he expects, and that’s before he even considers the dip of affectionate warmth in Takeshi’s voice, the way his gaze slides sideways to catch bright against Hayato’s features. Hayato can’t even tell the cause of his blush anymore, if it’s from uncertainty or nerves or embarrassment, or maybe just self-consciousness flaring hot from the way Takeshi’s fingers are laced with his and the too-obvious softness in his eyes.

“Hayato,” the king says, stepping forward to offer his hand. Hayato drags his fingers loose through sheer panicked force of will and reaches out to offer his too-warm hand for the king’s greeting. He feels off-balance, flustered and itchy against the back of his neck, but the handshake is easy at least, gentle pressure closing against his fingers in a motion so familiar even the unprecedented situation doesn’t override Hayato’s learned reflex. “It’s nice to meet you.” His smile flashes wider, touches his eyes, and Hayato very nearly jerks backwards out of sheer surprise at how  _human_  it makes him look. “Again, I suppose.”

“Our son has made it clear he intends to take you as his official consort,” Takeshi’s mother says. When the king lets Hayato go and steps back it’s the queen who’s looking at him, again with that alarming intensity in her eyes, like she’s trying to see right through him to the blood in his veins. “I hope he’s mentioned this to you before?”

“Uh,” Hayato says, as intelligibly as if this is the first time he’s spoken to reigning monarchs. His traitorous memory helpfully offers up the exact circumstances of Takeshi’s declaration -- the overheated darkness, the soft of his voice on the words -- and if he was red before he’s crimson, now, more than representing his native country’s colors in the sea of blue around him. “Yeah. Yes. Your highness.”

The queen looks him over. Hayato can feel heat spreading down his neck, across his shoulders and over his chest, painting him flushed and uncomfortable under her scrutiny. He’s not even sure what she’s looking for, exactly -- it’s not like this is the first time she’s seeing him, if perhaps it is the first time she’s given him real consideration -- but all his upbringing is failing him now, panic telling him to fall back and retreat into the safety of hunched shoulders and a glare to extricate himself from the situation.

There’s a touch at his wrist, fingers curling in around his own. When Hayato risks a glance sideways Takeshi is looking at him, eyes wide and sympathetic and mouth soft on a smile. He can see the reassurance in the expression, wants to jerk his hand away and snap that he doesn’t need the support, but what he’s doing instead is tightening his hold, digging his fingers in desperately hard against Takeshi’s like he has no intention of ever letting go again.

“Understand our hesitation,” the queen says, and Hayato’s attention skids away from Takeshi, his grip pressing harder in response to this framework for negation. He’d worry about hurting the other boy except that Takeshi is squeezing right back, the pressure of his fingers grating Hayato’s knuckles against the small bones of his hand. It aches up Hayato’s arm and he doesn’t ever want Takeshi to let go. “You are the prince of the country that nearly killed our son, that  _did_  kill many of our citizens in pursuit of dominion over our lands. We have a treaty in place at present, but as the heir you must know how fragile those have been in the past and are likely to be in the future. Your presence is a risk to us, a danger to our entire country, and you are asking us to accept it on your word that you will not betray us.”

Hayato’s heart is thrumming in his chest, so fast the beats are frantic static rather than distinguished pulses. His hand aches, his throat is tight, and when he speaks it’s involuntary, a spill of words desperate with the fear of losing everything now, when he’s so close, when he has nowhere left to go. “I’m not.”

The king clears his throat. “What?”

“I’m not.” Hayato coughs, tries to shed the tremor from his throat, but when he speaks again his voice is still audibly unsteady. “I’m not the heir. Or the prince.”

The silence is deafening, absent even the rustle of shifting fabric. Hayato takes another breath, resists the urge to cough as his cheeks flare hot again. “I disavowed all connections to the country and the royal family before we departed.”

“Why?” the queen asks.

Takeshi is still looking at him. Hayato can feel the weight of his attention against him, the wide-eyed heat of his gaze. He doesn’t look sideways to meet it.

“It was the only way I could leave,” he starts, pauses, clarifies. “With Takeshi.”

His shoulders are hunching in farther, his blush aching like a sunburn across his features, and some forgotten part of his mind catches up, points out to whom he’s speaking and the formalities he’s entirely flouting. “Your majesty.”

There’s a pause, spanning enough time for Hayato’s blush to fade into ice, for resignation to sweep through him in a wave of cold. There’s no way they’ll agree, not after this, it  _was_  too much to hope for. He’ll have to leave, have to find a home for himself with nothing at all, he’ll --

“Very well,” the queen says, and the king picks up as smoothly as if they’ve passed off the thread of the conversation one to another.

“It will take a few days to prepare the ceremony, but we can find quarters for you in the meantime. Will your previous guest rooms be sufficient until after the announcement?”

“What?” Hayato says blankly. There’s a bubble of delighted laughter from beside him, Takeshi’s voice ringing clear into the space, and the pressure at his fingers goes slack all at once, the other’s hold easing into something far more comfortable.

“Can’t he just stay with me?” Takeshi asks while Hayato is still staring in shocked-silent confusion at the monarchs in front of him. They’re both smiling, now, and if the queen’s expression remains somewhat more reserved than her husband’s the king is  _beaming_ , smiling all over his face in a dead match for Takeshi’s effervescent delight.

The queen sighs a negative, but it’s the king who answers. “After the formal announcement we’ll have larger chambers arranged for you both. Until then keep the separate rooms in name, at least.” He turns his attention back to Hayato, straightens his shoulders into his title again. Hayato can see what’s coming this time with enough warning to work his hand free of Takeshi’s and offer it before the king has even moved.

“Welcome,” the king says as he shakes Hayato’s hand again. “We’re glad to have you.”

Even when he looks for it, Hayato can’t find any insincerity in his eyes.


	27. Staying

The rooms feel different this time.

It’s probably a shift in his perspective, Hayato reasons. The first time he saw the plush of this bed and the high span of the window set into the wall he was wet, cold and miserable and ready to fling himself over the soft sheets and never move again. By the time he left the walls had formed a sanctuary, the weight of the door a barrier to the public he had learned to resent; it’s strange to stand in the familiar outline of the space and feel none of the warmth it had when he was here last, like the lingering hints of Takeshi are gone, carried away with the change in the sheets.

Hayato paces out the floor, idle exploration of the room so familiar to his eyes and so foreign in his memory. He doesn’t remember this shelf of books, doesn’t recall the view of the grounds below when he leans in to look out the window. The ledge in front of the glass is Takeshi’s preferred perch, not his, but the thought alone is enough to make him smile into the gathering dusk outside. The candlelight is enough to illuminate everything clearly, the golden glow more than sufficient to turn the space warm and welcoming, but that’s weird too, to feel like he has a place to belong here. It was only ever a visit, the last time, no matter how much Hayato pressed the shape of sleep against the blankets; dawn always brought him one day closer to farewell, no matter how long he tried to drag the nights. It’s strange, to have the constant timekeeping gone from the back of his head, to have nothing he needs to make himself forget.

He’s staring unseeing out the window and starting to frown at the mental discomfort when there’s a knock on the door, the careful shape of a question ringing into the space, and he knows who it is before he turns to close the distance to the entrance. His frown fades, his feet move him forward of their own accord, and he’s smiling, even, inadvertently radiating happiness when he pulls the door open with all the speed he can muster. It leaves Takeshi with one hand upraised, evidence of his intention to knock again, but he looks not at all embarrassed; his faint smile just goes wider, his eyes go softer, and his raised hand comes out instead, drawn as if by magnetism to the fall of Hayato’s hair.

“Hey,” he says, so carefully that the word is shaped like a whisper. Fingertips skim across Hayato’s cheek, brush the trailing ends of his hair, and a shiver flickers out into Hayato’s blood, thrumming not-quite-visibly under his skin.

“Hey yourself,” Hayato manages, with far more volume and far more roughness on the words than he thought he could manage. Takeshi’s fingers are catching on the embroidery at his shoulder, pressing into the shapes printed there like he doesn’t know them intimately already, like this isn’t his own coat liberated for the purposes of the royal audience this afternoon. “What do you want?”

Hayato is aiming for teasing, reaching for the slick bite of a taunt across his tongue. In practice it just turns rough, grating itself into harshness over the heat of anticipation in his throat, but Takeshi doesn’t seem to notice. He just smiles wider, bright and shaky like he’s helpless to the expression, takes a half-step in closer to the other boy.

“They unwrapped my arm,” Takeshi offers, half-lifting his right hand as if to demonstrate. Hayato can see the movement in his periphery, and under other circumstances he would look, but Takeshi is too close and too hazy-breathless and there’s nothing that could persuade Hayato to look away from his eyes.

“That’s nice,” he says in a tone that says the opposite. “Why are you here and not in your own room, Takeshi?”

Takeshi makes a meaningless noise, a humming whine in the back of his throat, and he’s leaning in, the hold at Hayato’s shoulder is going firmer to catch his balance. “I wanted to see you.”

“You’ve seen me,” Hayato says, turning his head up towards Takeshi’s as the other dips in closer. “Is that all?”

“Mm,” Takeshi says just against his lips. “No.” And he opens his mouth, and Hayato rocks forward, and it’s barely been two hours but everything is different, now, with the clean gold of candlelight to illuminate them and the weight of the door still held open instead of safely closed. Takeshi feels warmer, brighter, his touch easy with the lack of anxious desperation they shared before, and when Hayato reaches out for his hip the other boy sighs against his mouth and leans in closer. Hayato licks against Takeshi’s mouth, catches the taste of him onto his tongue, and when he pulls back he’s tingling warm, helpless to the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” he asks.

Takeshi’s sigh of satisfaction stutters into a laugh, his fingers sliding up to press higher against Hayato’s neck.

“No,” he admits, and when Hayato steps back into the room to let the door swing shut Takeshi follows so closely they nearly stumble over each other. Takeshi’s hand comes out to catch at Hayato’s shoulder, his fingers fitting into the soft of his shirt, and Hayato’s smile is breaking wider, spreading out all across his face as the door swings shut.

“Is your arm okay?” he asks in the gap between flutter-light kisses, into one of the spaces of Takeshi taking a slow breath like he’s trying to breathe Hayato in.

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, drawing back enough to hold up his right hand to demonstrate. His left lingers at Hayato’s shoulder, slipping up to curl into the other’s hair, but Hayato doesn’t protest the contact, makes no move at all to shy away from the motion. He reaches out instead, curls his fingers into a gentle hold around Takeshi’s healed wrist; it’s a little thinner than he expects, the motion of it faintly jerky instead of demonstrating Takeshi’s usual fluid grace, but it’s nice to have the bandages gone, to have the constant barrier of the sling between them removed.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Hayato asks, just to make sure, just to soothe the last of the tight knot of worry pressed up flush against the inside of his ribs.

Takeshi’s smile is slow, spreading easy across his features. When he moves it’s to draw his right hand free of Hayato’s hold, to settle his fingers in carefully at the other boy’s waist.

“It’s fine,” he says, and his fingers curl to form a gentle fist on the fabric. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You had better tell me if it does,” Hayato growls, turning relief into the sound of irritation on his tongue, and Takeshi laughs against his mouth. Hayato turns his head up and Takeshi dips his down and any words, agreement or otherwise, are lost to the heat of Takeshi’s mouth opening to Hayato’s. He tastes familiar, sweet and clean and warm like candlelight, and Hayato’s hands move of their own accord, draw their way across Takeshi’s shirt to seek out the fastenings lining the front. It’s easier without the sling in the way, the pattern of movement falling into a familiar rhythm, and then the fabric comes open and Hayato’s fingers slide in underneath to press Takeshi’s undershirt flush against the warmth of his skin.

“Wait,” Takeshi manages, and Hayato blinks himself into attention, notices the fingers working at the front of his shirt. “Wait, you’re getting ahead of me.”

Hayato leans back an inch, far enough that he can raise an eyebrow at the line of concentration across Takeshi’s forehead. “What’s the problem?” he asks, twisting his fingers into loose fabric and tugging to drag Takeshi’s undershirt free of his pants. “Don’t you remember how to take clothes off?”

“I do,” Takeshi allows. Hayato slides his hand up under the loose undershirt, grins at the way Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter at the contact, the way he rocks forward like he’s going to collapse against him. “ _Ah_. I do, but my fingers won’t do what I want them to.” Hayato fits his hand into the curve of Takeshi’s spine, pushes up in a slow slide, and Takeshi’s fingers fist at the front of his shirt, dragging to steady his balance as he tips in to gasp at Hayato’s shoulder.

“And you’re  _distracting_ ,” he finishes, the deciding point in his argument. It makes Hayato laugh, makes him dig his fingers in against Takeshi’s back to drag gentle lines against his skin. That gets him a laugh of response, the ghosting touch of lips at the line of his jaw, and Hayato turns his head to allow the contact, reaches for the front of Takeshi’s pants with his free hand.

“Not as dextrous as usual, huh?” The question is rhetorical, the answer obvious in the fumbling attempts that have made it barely halfway down the front of Hayato’s shirt. “Guess I can’t leave you to take care of yourself like I was planning to, then.”

Takeshi’s laugh is its own reward, even before he abandons his work at Hayato’s buttons to settle his fingers against the back of the other boy’s neck. “You weren’t.”

“I was,” Hayato insists as the laces slide loose under his fingers, as his hands fit against Takeshi’s hips so he can catch his thumbs under the line of the other’s pants. “I was just going to go to bed,  _you’re_ the one who decided to show up at my door and beg for more.”

He’s expecting Takeshi to laugh off this claim, maybe to offer some kind of gentle retort to the patently absurd statement. But it’s a sigh he gets instead, warm and pleased against his neck, and then: “Please, Hayato,” simple and straightforward and wholly absent the heat of self-consciousness Hayato was anticipating. The sound shocks through him like physical force, rushes heat into his blood before he can think, and suddenly it’s his hands that are shaking, his hold that has to draw tight at Takeshi’s hips to hold himself steady.

“Fuck,” he says, and he’s turning his head, catching his mouth at Takeshi’s jaw in lieu of waiting for a better angle. His hands slide past fabric, press in against warm skin, and they’re stumbling backwards without any intention on his part, a slow-motion echo of their first time in this room. But this time Takeshi is laughing, grabbing at Hayato’s shoulder to keep his balance, and when they get to the bed Hayato pauses, resists the urge to angle Takeshi back over the sheets and drops to sit at the edge himself instead. Takeshi stutters to a stop, his shirt unfastened and undershirt untucked. All Hayato can see is rumpled fabric and a hint of dark-tan skin and it’s not enough, he’s pushing against the edge of the other boy’s pants to ease them down off his thighs even as he catches a breath to speak.

“Do you have to leave?” he says, carefully deliberate with the words as the fabric slides free to catch at Takeshi’s ankles. The other boy rocks his weight back, keeping just his hold at Hayato’s shoulder to brace himself while he toes his boots off, and then he’s kicking free of his pants, baring the long line of his legs for Hayato’s eyes. “Since I’m--” but he can’t manage the weight of the words, has to retreat to the safety of euphemism. “Since the ceremony hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s motion in his periphery, a dark head moving; when Hayato looks up Takeshi is shaking his head, his lips parted on unconscious heat and his throat working around a swallow. “No,” he says, and Hayato has never known that one word to run so deep before. “No, I don’t have to leave.”

Hayato takes a breath, lets it out all at once. “Good,” he says, pushing to his feet. Takeshi is so close his open shirt catches at Hayato’s, promising contact if either of them leans in at all; Hayato’s hands fit into the open edges of the fabric to urge the weight back over Takeshi’s shoulders. “Let go.”

Takeshi does, eases his hold obediently off Hayato’s shoulder, and Hayato is pushing before the movement is done, sliding the fabric down off the other’s arms with the care he’s learned over the weeks of Takeshi’s recovery. Then the shirt is off, the undershirt following almost before the first hits the ground, and then there’s just Takeshi, his skin glowing gold in the light and breathing so fast Hayato can see the inhales coming quick in his chest. There’s a shadow marring the gold skin, the jagged line of a dark scar wandering across his chest until it catches into a sharp turn against the shape of his ribs; it makes Hayato’s chest tighten, seeing the tracery of danger etched so clear against Takeshi’s body, the angle of the injury so terrifyingly close to the shift of his breathing.

He doesn’t look up. He’s not sure what face he’s making, doesn’t want Takeshi to see past the curtain of his hair, but he does lift his hand, presses his fingers in hard against the dark line of the fresh scar over the other’s skin. It’s warm, warmer than he expects, warm like Takeshi always is, and some of the tension in his hand eases, lets his fingers splay wide and easy against the other’s chest. He can feel Takeshi’s flush under his palm, the heat of his body rising to meet Hayato’s touch, and it’s enough.

Hayato reaches with his other hand to close his fingers at Takeshi’s hip. “Bed.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says immediately, and it sounds a little like a laugh but he’s moving, stumbling to the side and half-falling over the soft of the as-yet-unrumpled sheets. Hayato has a moment of panic as he falls, short-term habit learned too well that says Takeshi can’t catch himself with just one arm, but it’s both hands that come out, his right arm as quick to respond to the fall as his left.

It’s tempting to topple in over the bed himself, to let the soft of the sheets press against his hands and curl in to fit himself over Takeshi’s warm skin, to press between the willing angle of his knees over the sheets. But they’re in no rush, Hayato tells himself, turning the idea over in his mind like he’s rolling a sip of wine on his tongue, and even when Takeshi pushes himself upright and reaches encouragement towards him he doesn’t move in. It’s his shirt he reaches for instead, catching his fingers at the half-done job Takeshi abandoned, and the clear invitation in Takeshi’s eyes flickers into understanding between blinks, a shadow of appreciative want clinging to his expression.

It doesn’t take long. Hayato’s not wearing much; he kicked his boots off as soon as he came into the room, and his shirt is half-open already. But it feels like forever, the anticipation drawn endless by the dark of Takeshi’s eyes tracking his movements, time going slow on the way the other’s mouth falls unconsciously open as he watches, on the thoughtless catch of his tongue at his lip when Hayato reaches to work the laces of his pants open. Self-consciousness makes Hayato flush but desire keeps him moving, his hands pushing the faster at his clothes for the tremor in his fingers. He’s hard by the time he’s kicked his pants free, the heat of his cock bumping the inside of his wrist as he reaches to strip his undershirt off, and Takeshi makes a faint whimpering noise against the bed, shifts to roll onto his stomach as Hayato drags at his shirt. When Hayato emerges he’s stripped of his clothes, bare skin to match Takeshi’s, and Takeshi is lying across the bed with his fingers working against the bedsheet, his head tipped sideways so he can watch Hayato with eyes gone night-black in the familiar shape of his face.

Hayato’s grin is impulsive, spills over his mouth without any conscious thought. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, and if the words shake with self-consciousness in his throat it doesn’t seem to affect Takeshi’s reaction. His eyelashes flutter, his throat works, and when he lets the blanket go to stretch out a hand Hayato doesn’t need words to understand.

“Fuck,” he says, the word skidding high and telltale in his throat, and he’s moving in, crossing the distance and dropping a knee onto the bed to bring himself in closer. Takeshi is moving too, sliding over the blankets and onto his side, his arms coming out to catch around Hayato’s neck and drag him down. Hayato laughs, a burst of involuntary sound as he falls, and when he lands there’s just warm skin under him, Takeshi arching up against his weight and shifting his legs to try to fit himself around Hayato’s hips. It’s inelegant, a tangle of limbs and uncoordinated movements; by any reasonable standards Hayato should be laughing instead of gasping. But Takeshi is tipping up for a kiss, fitting his lips against the corner of Hayato’s mouth, and it’s gasping that Hayato is doing, inhaling a shocked rush of air before he turns his head to catch Takeshi’s mouth with his own, to pin him down against the sheets with the pressure of his lips and a steadying hand at the back of his neck. Takeshi’s legs fit around his waist, the other boy arches up to drag Hayato in closer, and Hayato loses his balance and they press together, the texture of Takeshi’s scar flush with his chest and the heat of his cock falling into alignment with Takeshi’s.

“ _God_ ,” he gasps against the whine at Takeshi’s lips, drags up a laugh from the fire in his veins. “Impatient, huh?”

“I missed you,” Takeshi says, instant sincerity to Hayato’s teasing, and Hayato can feel his fingers tense into involuntary desperation at the back of the other boy’s neck. “I missed you so much, Hayato.”

“Idiot,” Hayato manages, twists himself sideways so he can fumble against the drawer next to the bed with a prayer that this too is as unchanged as when he was here last. “I’m here, I’ve  _been_  here this whole time, I’ve barely left your side.”

“Not like this,” Takeshi says, rocking up in a way that short-circuits Hayato’s thoughts and blows the air from his lungs in one rushing groan. His fingers tighten, his logic vanishes, and if it weren’t for the familiar shape under his reaching hand he might give up on this plan entirely, or at least put it on hold as a follow-up after hands or mouths. But he’s found what he’s looking for, the promise of lubrication cool under his hand, and the anticipation is enough to pull him back and away from Takeshi’s skin for the moment it takes to spill oil over his fingers.

“You’re so  _demanding_ ,” Hayato manages, trying to cling to stability with the familiar tones of teasing as Takeshi gasps a breath of raw heat and tilts his legs wider in offering. Hayato drops a hand to Takeshi’s knee, pushes his leg up and open so he can reach down with slick fingers and press friction against the other boy’s skin. Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his hand reaches out as if to grab and instead just trails against Hayato’s chest. It’s hard for Hayato to not to lean into it, to keep his position over his knees so he can angle his hand where he wants it.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Hayato growls, the low rumble of a promise, and tilts his hand to push a finger inside the other boy. Takeshi’s touch skids, presses against his waist for a moment, and he pushes in deeper, an easy slick slide while Takeshi sighs as if in relief, collapsing languid over the sheets like all his tension is releasing with the contact. He’s warmer than Hayato remembers, burning hot around the other’s touch, and Hayato’s going harder than he thought he could be, all the ache in his spine collecting to remind him how long it’s been, to backdate the weeks together and apart and come up with  _too long, too long_  like a chant in his head.

“We’ll just stay like this,” he says, a reckless promise into the air, and Takeshi whimpers, rocks his hips up like he’s pleading as Hayato draws back for another thrust. “Like my last day here except all the time, days and days, weeks if you want.” Takeshi’s mouth is open, his throat working on incoherent sound; Hayato eases his hand back, tries a second finger with as much careful patience as he can muster. Takeshi takes a breath, shudders it free of his lungs, and from the heat in the sound Hayato can make incoherent encouragement. He pushes in deeper, breath catching at the way Takeshi is tensing around him, and words spill over his tongue like water before he can think.

“We don’t have to leave,” fast, sliding overquick on his lips, and Takeshi is rocking up to meet the motion of his hand, his eyes wide and dark and fixed on Hayato’s face. “You don’t have to leave, right?”

“Right,” Takeshi says, the sound hot and shaking on his tongue, and Hayato turns his fingers, presses inside the other boy so he knocks Takeshi’s head back and turns the word into a groan instead.

“I’m going to stay,” he says, and then again, because the words burn under his skin like all Takeshi’s heat is bleeding into him: “I’m going to stay, Takeshi. With you.” Takeshi sighs, a sustained note of satisfaction, and Hayato slides his hand back, lets his knees go wider and steadying while he wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes what remains of the liquid over himself. It feels good, the friction glows in his blood, but Takeshi is reaching for him still, gentle fingers trailing against his skin, and Hayato can’t resist the draw of them. He lets Takeshi’s knee go, reaches out to brace himself against the bed as he leans in, and Takeshi’s legs catch around him, draw him down and the other boy up as fast as Hayato can lean into the right angle.

“Fuck,” Hayato says. He can feel himself trembling, anticipation spilling into motion in his veins. “Takeshi, I--”

“I love you,” Takeshi blurts, fast like it’s a race, like he’s stealing the words off Hayato’s lips. He looks dazed, his eyes drifting over Hayato’s features like he’s never seen them before, his mouth soft and open into an invitation.

Hayato laughs, a note of sincere amusement. “You interrupted me,” he growls in mock irritation. His knee fits under Takeshi’s thigh, his cock fits against the other boy’s entrance, and when he starts to rock forward it’s with the slow motion of patient certainty. Takeshi shivers as he eases inside, his body tensing against Hayato’s cock, but Hayato stays slow, drags his voice down to the shape of composure as he continues.

“I’m not going to tell you, now,” he declares as his blood burns into heat, as all his attention draws in around the friction of his motion. “You’ll have to wait.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi gasps, the sound too wide-open for Hayato to tell if it’s pleasure or a plea in the word. There’s an arm around his neck, fingers in his hair, and as he thrusts forward Takeshi urges him down, offers the irresistible temptation of his mouth for a kiss, and Hayato gives up on speech in pursuit of Takeshi’s lips instead. He tastes clean, the flavor of chocolate and the smell of rain, and Hayato doesn’t think before he’s licking against Takeshi’s mouth, reaching for more with the same unthinking instinct of their first kiss, when his whole body tasted  _home_  against the mouth of a total stranger. It feels more real, now, like that first time was just a premonition of what was to come, a hint of this foreign room in an adopted country turning to the comfort of familiarity with the heat of Takeshi to fill up the space.

Hayato almost doesn’t have to think about his movement. It’s easy, instinctive, the draw of Takeshi’s legs caught around his hips and the tilt of the other boy’s motion to meet each slick forward glide. He’s breathing hard, each inhale tasting like Takeshi on his lips, and then Takeshi rocks up enough that his cock bumps Hayato’s stomach, the slick at its head a reminder for Hayato’s attention. Hayato tips onto an elbow, draws his movements a little slower and more deliberate so he can keep his balance; the shift is worth it, when he gets his freed hand down to drag his fingers against Takeshi’s length and feels the way the other boy gasps and shudders with the sensation.

“I love you,” Takeshi says again, sighing over the words as Hayato closes his fingers into a steady grip and starts to stroke up against him. The fingers in Hayato’s hair tighten, fall slack, slip over the back of his neck with unconscious affection to match the heat-hazed drag of Takeshi’s gaze across his features. “Hayato, I love you.”

“You keep saying that,” Hayato says, snaps his hips forward hard enough that Takeshi groans, his eyes falling shut as his head tips back on the sound. Hayato’s blood is going hot in his veins, burning up along the dip of his spine and flickering incoherency into his thoughts, but he’s smiling too, a hot curve of pleasure at his mouth that draws him in to kiss at the vibration along Takeshi’s throat. That just draws another sound, a whining note of appreciation, and then Hayato tightens his grip and drags up harder and Takeshi goes taut under him, arching himself as far off the bed as he can get with Hayato’s weight pressing him down. The movement pulls friction over Hayato’s cock, breaks his smile into a gasp of reaction instead, and he’s falling to pieces, his attention fraying as his fingers work with desperate haste over Takeshi’s length. He’s not going to make it, he’s sure, there’s too much tension building under his skin and too much breathless heat spiking into his veins and he’s going to -- and it’s Takeshi who gasps his name and shudders hard under him. Hayato groans as much as relief as victory, the feel of Takeshi shaking against him more than enough to shatter what resistance he has left, and he’s spilling over into the bright white of pleasure before he’s stilled the slide of his hand over Takeshi’s cock. Everything is warm, sound and sensation and vision all blending together into a sustained note of heat, and when Hayato takes a breath he can taste Takeshi on his tongue.

He doesn’t move away, even as his vision drifts back into clarity, even as the heat of pleasure gives way to the chill of sweat clinging between his shoulderblades and in the angle of his elbow. Takeshi is radiant against him, still wound around Hayato like he never intends to let go, and even with the stickiness clinging to Hayato’s skin he’s not opposed to that idea. He lets Takeshi take his weight, reaches up to fit his clean hand into the other’s hair, and Takeshi laughs, a faint hum of sound more felt than heard. It makes Hayato smile, carefully, pressed in against Takeshi’s shoulder where he can’t be seen. There’s still more heat there than he is quite ready to show, a greater threat of relieved emotion in his throat and behind his eyes than he can trust himself with. But he does take a breath, shifts his arm in to fit better against Takeshi’s shoulder, and when he speaks the words fall clear as pebbles dropped into still water.

“Takeshi.” Soft, gentle, a slur over the sound like a caress on his lips. “I love you.”

Takeshi doesn’t speak, almost doesn’t move. But his hand dips up, his fingers fit into Hayato’s hair, and when he sighs it sounds like perfect satisfaction, contentment in its purest form.

Hayato thinks he knows what that feels like, now.


	28. Grace

“It’s going to rain,” Hayato declares, looking at the clouds hanging overhead because it seems safer than watching the joy shining in Takeshi’s eyes.

“It won’t,” Takeshi says, and avoiding his gaze is apparently not enough to save Hayato because there are fingers catching at the sleeve of his brand-new coat, he can feel the heat of the other boy’s hand curling into a hold against his own. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Hayato tells the clouds. Takeshi’s fingers tighten against his skin, the pressure bursting bright into his veins. “I’m just being reasonable.”

“It won’t rain,” Takeshi says, and he’s laughing, now, there’s a bubble of amusement audible in his throat. “I promise, Hayato, it’ll be fine.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Hayato grumbles, forgetting his intention to avoid Takeshi’s gaze in the urge to fix the other boy with a glare. He makes it about halfway there -- his chin is tipped down, his brows drawing together in irritation -- before he gets a good look at the other boy’s face and all his attention shatters into bright incoherency. It’s not teasing at Takeshi’s lips; it’s delight, happiness so effervescent on his features he looks helpless to it, his eyes wide and his lips parted like he can’t hold back the smile breaking past his lack of effort to restrain it. It makes Hayato’s stomach drop, pulls all his gravity away like he’s falling, like he’s reorienting himself into a new world, and the tension at his forehead converts smoothly into the almost-pain of too much heat in his chest, a pressure swelling against his ribs until he can’t take a breath for the weight of it. Takeshi looks ecstatic, looks like all the sunshine absent from the sky has collected into his eyes, and Hayato can’t so much as move for staring, can feel his throat closing up too-tight on whatever he might want to say in response.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Takeshi says, the words so far from the echoing struck-bell hum in Hayato’s thoughts he has to struggle to place them. Takeshi is leaning in closer, edging himself into Hayato’s space until his forehead bumps the other boy’s, until Hayato can feel the warmth of his smile against his mouth. “I’m just happy. Really, really happy.”

“God,” Hayato manages. “You’re ridiculous” but he’s tipping his head up anyway, seeking out the comfort of Takeshi’s mouth on his to push away the buzz of the crowd waiting for them, the volume rising with expectation and dragging his nerves taut with it. Takeshi doesn’t feel nervous at all -- his hold is gentle, absent all the strain Hayato can feel thrumming through his own blood, and his mouth is as unthinkingly soft as it ever is, whether they’re alone in Hayato’s room or about to step out in front of an audience of hundreds. But as calm as Takeshi feels Hayato is tense, spine tingling with almost-panic, until he can anticipate the breathless quiet that settles over the crowd a moment before it actually falls, is pulling back from Takeshi’s mouth as silence settles with a rush of adrenaline that steals all the calm from his voice.

“Go,” he says, wrenching his hand free of Takeshi’s and shoving at the other boy’s shoulders instead. “Go, go, they’re waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Takeshi laughs, but he’s not going, he’s leaning in for another kiss at the corner of Hayato’s mouth, so quickly Hayato doesn’t have time to react or protest before the other is falling back, ducking out from the cover of the hangings behind the dais to join his parents. It leaves Hayato alone, able to listen in silence to the king’s brief introductory speech, and he thought this would be better, thought it would be easier alone, but it’s not, it’s far worse without the comfort of someone else to ground himself on. He can feel anticipation hanging thick like a storm in the air, electricity collecting static at his skin until he’s sure his hair is lifting with it, until he can feel each individual fiber of his painfully new clothes itching over his clammy skin. The air is heavy with moisture, the threat of rain obvious in the shadows overhead, and Hayato has the horrible thought that it will open up on him just before he emerges, that on top of all the other inevitable disappointments he will be the excess of effort put into his appearance will go for naught as well.

He’s so certain of it, so resigned to waiting for the crack of thunder to announce the inevitable, that it takes him a moment to identify his name and another to realize that the hush has gone even deeper in expectation. His heart skids out in his chest, his breath stopping in his lungs entirely, and when he makes for the dais the movement is too rushed to give him any time to freeze up. He doesn’t think about how graceful his entrance is, doesn’t think to look out at the sea of people staring at him; he just moves, barely avoiding tripping over the edge of the dais, and then he’s there and his head is swimming and the king is turning to greet him, shoulders back and spine so straight that he retains his regality even when his smile flashes warm for an instant.

“Hayato,” he says, voice ringing clear into the wide-eyed hush of the crowd. There’s a beat, a breath for Hayato’s mind to go entirely blank; then he moves in a rush as memory sweeps back in, drops into a bow lower even than is called for by the gap in their positions. He is meant to hold it for a few seconds, but they feel like an eternity, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears with a nervous energy he’s never felt before in his life.

“Rise,” that resonant voice says, and Hayato straightens too-fast, his vision swimming into haze for a moment with the speed of his motion. There’s movement in the blur of his eyes, pressure at his shoulder, and then he blinks and it’s a hand, the warm weight of the king’s fingers resting at his shoulder.

“You have my approval,” he says formally, the words breaking loud into the quiet of the audience Hayato doesn’t dare look at. His heart is thudding against his chest, he can’t breathe and doesn’t remember how to move; then the fingers at his shoulder tighten, the level expression breaks into a smile, and when the king speaks again it’s soft enough that only Hayato hears the words. “Welcome, truly,” and something in Hayato caves in, panic falling into the lines of emotion unidentifiable except as  _too much_ , and all he can do is nod and stumble forward at the subtle press of the hand on his shoulder.

The queen is next. She has her head up, her hair pinned into a smooth dark knot at the back of her head; she looks pristine, dark-eyed and smooth-faced and as certain of herself as if she’s singlehandedly responsible for sapping all Hayato’s self-confidence. They are nearly of a height but her poise makes Hayato feel like the supplicant he is, begging for an impossible boon with no expectation that it will be granted.

“Your majesty,” he manages this time, folds into a bow while some part of his head calculates the probability that she will refuse him after all. This is intended to be more ceremonial than anything else, going through the motions instead of truly asking for the rulers’ grace in becoming their son’s consort, but this feels more real than anything else has since Hayato arrived, his too-loud heartbeat giving panicked voice to the very real uncertainty in his mind.

The pause feels heavier this time, goes on so long Hayato is certain the queen will refuse, can feel his hands starting to shake in anticipation of rejection. His thoughts are spiraling, his breath catching in his throat, when:

“Rise,” she says, and there’s a hand at his shoulder, fingers brushing the embroidery made into the outline of leaves against the fabric. Hayato does, feeling giddy with the rush of relief, and the queen is smiling now, too, a softer expression than her husband’s but one that is still warm enough to turn her eyes gentle and affectionate like her refusal was never a possibility.

“Make him happy,” is all she says, and Hayato barely has time to start flushing at that before the queen is stepping out of the way, and he looks up, and Takeshi is waiting for him.

He doesn’t think at all from there. The forward movement is unconscious, unthinking action to cross the distance as rapidly as he can, and Takeshi is reaching for him, any formality achieved by the clean lines of his clothes completely undone by the obvious want in his outstretched hands. Hayato is crimson in truth, now, his face burning with self-consciousness, but Takeshi is smiling, Takeshi is laughing helpless delight, and they really were supposed to wait but Takeshi is dragging him in for a kiss and Hayato can’t turn away from the promise of his mouth. There’s noise in the background -- the crowd dissolving into a cheer, the king declaring Hayato’s formal acknowledgment over the roar -- but Hayato doesn’t hear the details, is too distracted to even notice when the cloud-dim lighting gives way as if on cue to the glow of sunlight around them.

He’s not worried about the rain anymore.


	29. Distraction

Takeshi is being distracting.

In general Hayato is grateful to the advantages provided by sharing a single oversized room. The bed is enormous, for one thing, easily large enough for three or four people instead of the two they are, and combined with Takeshi’s demonstrated tendency to wind himself around Hayato while they sleep Hayato sometimes feels adrift in the middle of the mattress, like they’re on a very comfortable island intended just for them. And there’s the advantage of privacy, because for all that Takeshi can and does sneak kisses during breakfast or link his fingers with Hayato’s when they’re out in the gardens, there is only so much Hayato’s official title will excuse, and there is only so much Hayato himself can take before he has to retreat with Takeshi behind the closed door of their room. There’s other consequences too, the all-too frequent confusion of whose clothes are whose still more charming than frustrating and the advantage of a willing audience for Hayato’s occasional rants, all of which add up to a benefit, overall.

But the distraction is a constant, endless issue, and sometimes -- like now -- it’s particularly noticeable.

“Stop it,” Hayato growls at the page of text in front of him.

There’s a spill of a laugh from behind him, sincere confusion humming a question into Takeshi’s throat. “I’m not doing anything, though.”

“You are,” Hayato insists. “You’re looking at me that way you do, I can  _feel_  you doing it, stop.”

“But you’re nice to look at,” Takeshi says, his voice dipping slow and warm until Hayato can all but see his head canting to the side in consideration. “Especially when you’re really focused on something. It’s cute.”

Hayato growls at this particular adjective choice, twists around in his chair to fix Takeshi with a scowl. “It is  _not_.”

Takeshi smiles radiant at him from where he’s sitting in the cushioned window seat. He’s far more distracting when Hayato turns around -- his hair is ruffled up on end and damp with sweat from his fencing training, the same training responsible for the loose white shirt sliding wide on his shoulders. Hayato’s eyes drift down, catch at a bare collarbone, and it’s to that that he speaks when he goes on, “What are you even  _doing_  up there anyway?”

“Watching the rain,” Takeshi says immediately. “And waiting for you to be done.”

“Idiot,” Hayato says without looking away. “You’re planning to just wait there for hours?”

“Sure.” Takeshi’s mouth is still caught on a smile, his shoulders tipped into comfort against the edge of the window. There’s a blanket tangled around his legs, covering all of him but one outstretched ankle, his leg spanning nearly the entire width of the ledge. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“ _I_  mind,” Hayato declares. “Is that from the  _bed_?”

“Yeah.” Takeshi reaches out for a corner of the blanket, idly tugs it up around his waist. “It’s more comfortable like this.” His fingers slide free of the cover, reach out instead in a suggestion. “Wanna see?”

“I’m not done,” Hayato insists, but that has no bearing on his movement, no effect on the way he pushes back from the desk to cross the gap between them. Takeshi slides his leg wide, making an invitation of his position, and Hayato growls incoherent protest to this even as he takes it, coming in to fit his knees between Takeshi’s legs and scowl at him from close-up. Takeshi looks even more comfortable this near, his eyes hazy with the complete calm of physical exertion and his irrepressible smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“You look stressed,” he observes, reaching out to press fingers against Hayato’s forehead. “You should take a break once in a while.”

“I’m fine,” Hayato grumbles, but he ducks his head when Takeshi’s fingers drift up to slide over his pulled-back hair, even though the motion ruffles the smooth of the strands loose of their ponytail. “I just take some things seriously. Unlike you.”

“You take everything seriously,” Takeshi hums without judgment on the words. He’s tugging at the tie on the other’s hair, now, but Hayato doesn’t try to stop that either; Takeshi’s fingers feel good sliding against his scalp, the comfort of his touch easing the knots that have collected in Hayato’s neck.

“Of course I do,” he says as his hair falls loose, as Takeshi’s touch presses in against the back of his neck to urge him to lean in closer. “I have to be worthy of my role as consort to the crown prince, don’t I?”

“You already are” Takeshi says, the words simple on sincerity in his throat.

“Whatever,” Hayato growls, the curtain of his hair hiding the flush of pleasure that crests across his cheeks at the statement. “The point is you shouldn’t be trying to distract me.”

“I’m not trying to,” Takeshi protests, as if the lilt of his voice isn’t a distraction, as if his fingers aren’t wandering along Hayato’s neck to slide just under the collar of his shirt. “I was waiting for you.”

“Yeah.” Hayato reaches out, catches his fingers at the loose fall of Takeshi’s shirt; it’s half-untucked already, rumpled out of line by his training earlier, and it takes almost no effort to press his fingers underneath and slide up to fit fingerprints at the other boy’s hip. “Like you don’t know exactly what you look like up here.”

He’s expecting the laugh against his hair, the breathless sigh Takeshi makes as Hayato’s fingers push up under his shirt to trace out the lines of his chest. Takeshi arches into the contact, his leg sliding in around Hayato’s hip as his fingers skid lower, and when he says “What do I look like?” the words are thrumming with heat in his throat.

Hayato looks up, blinks into focus on Takeshi’s shadowed eyes, on the dip and flutter of his eyelashes as he meets Hayato’s gaze. His mouth is coming open, his eyes sliding down to land at Hayato’s mouth, and when Hayato laughs it comes out low and rough enough to answer on its own. Takeshi’s mouth curves up again, he leans forward in expectation, and Hayato could tease him but he doesn’t really want to, not with the other’s lips so close to his own. He ducks in instead, reaches out to press his fingers to the faint sheen of salt at the back of Takeshi’s neck, and when their lips fit together Takeshi opens his mouth in invitation before Hayato has even licked at the heat of his skin.

It’s a good position, Hayato decides. He can rock up on his knees to get closer, gaining the advantage of height as well as proximity, and Takeshi capitulates easily, leaning back at the wall behind him and letting his hold at Hayato’s waist steady his balance. His skin is flushed warm under Hayato’s fingers, his shirt loose enough that it gives immediately to the slide of the other’s hand to let Hayato trace out the faint pattern of the healed-over scar trailing across Takeshi’s chest.

“Distracting,” Hayato says without pulling away, growling the word against Takeshi’s lips. Takeshi starts to giggle, startled sound falling between them, and Hayato shifts his weight, brings his knee out so he’s straddling Takeshi’s thigh instead of settled between the other’s legs. It’s an easy change, hardly requires any thought at all, but it gives him a better angle for the movement of his hips, lets him tip his weight forward so he can press up against the other’s waist.

Takeshi’s response is immediate. He takes a stuttered-short inhale, his hand dropping from Hayato’s waist to cling to his hip, and then he’s rocking up too, his motion easy enough to belie the all-over exhaustion that usually leaves him hazy and languid after training. The position isn’t ideal -- there’s a little too much of a gap between them, Hayato’s knees aren’t close enough to actually press them flush together -- but it’s enough for Hayato to feel the heat of Takeshi’s cock through his pants, to make out the outline of pressure digging in against his thigh.

“ _Very_  distracting,” he repeats, slow and dragging over the word as he trails his hand back down Takeshi’s chest to fit his fingers along the top edge of the other’s pants. Takeshi takes a deep inhale, heat audible in the breath, and when Hayato hesitates into stillness he whines, arches up to press in against the other’s hand like he’s pleading with movement instead of with words. Hayato could keep teasing him, decides not to; he’s going hard to match, anyway, Takeshi’s evident interest enough to fan heat into his blood, to send his pulse pounding hard in his veins as he slides his hand down farther and presses his palm against the laced front of Takeshi’s pants. That gets him Takeshi tipping his head back, groaning appreciation into the air, and Hayato grins, blinks himself into focus so he can watch the flutters of pleasure wash over Takeshi’s features in response to the movement of his fingers against the other boy. It’s thrilling to have such an immediate reaction to his motion, like he has all Takeshi’s attention at the very tips of his fingers, and he’s smiling wider, satisfaction unwinding hot under his skin before he rocks back over his heels and draws his hand away from Takeshi’s clothes to fumble with his own.

It’s an easy process: the laces come free at a tug of his fingers, the slick fabric of his shirt slipping out of his waistband as quick as he urges it. Takeshi blinks himself back into some measure of coherency, draws his hands back from Hayato’s hip and shoulder so he can manage the ties of his own clothes. Hayato doesn’t pause to get them stripped farther; the air of the room is cold enough that the blanket tangled around their legs is welcome, the heat of desire not quite enough to stand up to the cool temperature. Besides, Takeshi is reaching for him, replacing his fingers at Hayato’s hips to pull him in closer and urge them into each other’s space. When Hayato shifts his knees Takeshi makes room for him, spreading one leg sideways and angling the other up so they can press together, and the immediate closeness is more to Hayato’s taste than anything more deliberate or lengthy.

“Come here,” he says, like they’re not already pressed in against each other, like Takeshi’s head isn’t tipping forward to brace against his shoulder as Hayato reaches to wrap his fingers around them both. It’s a stretch for his hand, a little more than he can quite manage, but the heat of Takeshi’s cock pressed flush against his is worth the loss of a little dexterity, nearly as good as the groaning whimper the hold earns him. Hayato can hear every breath Takeshi takes, the heat of the air blowing hard against his shoulder in time with the tension of fingertips digging in at his hips, and he’s still grinning, delight as bright in him as the pleasure of his fingers sliding up over himself. When he turns his head his mouth fits in against Takeshi’s hair, his smile forming itself to the shape of a kiss, and Takeshi inhales hard, turns his head halfway to meet the pressure. Hayato shifts his hand, steadies his grip, and then starts moving in earnest, stroking up over them both with the deliberately steady rhythm he usually favors for himself. It’s familiar, the pattern of his movements promising rapid satisfaction for his own purposes, but more importantly it makes Takeshi shudder against him like he’s embodying electricity, knocks him breathless and trembling until the weight at Hayato’s shoulder becomes a lean in truth, until the hands at his hips are clinging to balance instead of just the ease of contact.

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the sound flushed on his tongue. Hayato presses his thumb in against himself, bracing his movement so he can tighten his hold against Takeshi and get the other to whine a note of reaction shaped around his name. “ _Hayato_.”

“Yeah?” he manages, sounding breathless and shaky himself, but it doesn’t matter; Takeshi’s fingers are working against his hips and Takeshi’s breathing is coming fast enough that how Hayato sounds won’t matter at all. “What do you want?” He turns his hand, drags friction in over the dark-swollen head of Takeshi’s cock; he can feel the full-body tremor that runs through the other boy, the desperate gasp in his breathing as he tries to rock his hips up to thrust against Hayato’s hold.

“ _Ah_ ,” Takeshi pants, “More,” and his hand is pulling away, his fingers dropping to fall into alignment with Hayato’s. It interrupts Hayato’s movement, catches at his fingers and stalls him still for a moment, but it’s only for a breath, barely long enough for him to growl frustration at the loss; then Takeshi’s hand is lining up with his, fingers meeting thumb on either side, and when Hayato moves again Takeshi’s hand does too. It’s better immediately, even though their motion is slowed by the delayed reaction before Takeshi catches the rhythm; the friction of Takeshi’s fingers against him aches instant heat under Hayato’s skin, fractures his thoughts into raw want, and the sounds Takeshi is making against his shoulder are just further encouragement. They’re inhales, mostly, but coming out of pattern and shaking in his throat to match the tremor in his body until Hayato thinks he could track Takeshi’s pleasure just from the arrhythm of them.

“Fuck,” Hayato says, the word nearly involuntary against Takeshi’s hair. Takeshi’s moving in sync with him now, gasping air against his shirt, and Hayato’s starting to tense, his legs trying to press him closer and his back arching with the anxious want building under his fingers. “Fuck, Takeshi, you had better not stop.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the syllables clear in spite of the way his voice is melting open on heat. He’s leaning hard against Hayato, his weight digging in against the other’s shoulder, but his hand is still moving without hesitation, still tracking Hayato’s rhythm without stopping. “I’m…” The words are lost to a choking exhale as Hayato’s fingers catch against the head of Takeshi’s cock again; Hayato closes his hand hard at Takeshi’s shoulder, braces him in place as he keeps moving. “I’m.”

“I  _know_  you are,” Hayato growls, gasping around the drag of air into his desperate lungs. “Just don’t stop, Takeshi.”

“Okay,” Takeshi pants, agreement coming so easy Hayato’s not sure he’s listening at all, and then, before Hayato can ask: an open-throated moan, hot and helpless, and Takeshi’s shuddering himself into pleasure as he comes across the tangle of their fingers. Hayato’s exhale turns into a purr of satisfaction in his throat and Takeshi  _was_  listening, enough that even as his shoulders shake through the waves of pleasure his fingers keep moving, urging the tension in Hayato’s body closer to the breaking point. It only takes another few strokes; Takeshi is encouragement enough on his own, with the half-convulsive whimpers of reaction he’s spilling against Hayato’s shirt, and Hayato was thrumming with tension even before. His fingers tighten, press indentations against Takeshi’s shirt and shoulder at once, and then his thumb catches with Takeshi’s fingers and he’s gone, he’s gasping into Takeshi’s hair and coming over Takeshi’s shirt and everything is white, the calm of satisfaction sweeping through him to knock him loose-limbed and endlessly warm.

Takeshi sighs a note of pure relaxation against Hayato’s shoulder. “That was fun.”

“Your shirt’s a mess,” Hayato observes.

Takeshi tips his head down to consider without lifting the weight from Hayato’s shoulder. “Mm, yeah.” His fingers loosen, his hand slides free, and when he reaches for his shirt it’s to wipe his hand clean at the edge of it before he leans back to tug it up over his head.

Hayato can’t keep from smiling, his expression made soft with the fond affection he usually tries to restrain. It doesn’t seem important right now, with Takeshi emerging flushed and warm from his shirt and offering it as Hayato eases his sticky hand free of his lingering hold. Hayato wipes his fingers more or less clean, pulls his own clothes back into order as Takeshi does the same, and by the time he’s tossing the balled-up shirt aside to deal with later Takeshi is reaching out for his shoulders again, leaning forward to wind his arms around Hayato’s neck and draw him back down to sprawl across the window seat.

“I wasn’t done studying, you know,” Hayato points out as he capitulates completely to let himself tip forward and lean against the support of Takeshi’s chest.

“That’s okay,” Takeshi says. “You can take a break for a little while, right?”

“Give me the blanket,” Hayato growls instead of answering, and then, when Takeshi is laughing and tugging the blanket up over them, he leans in to catch the corner of the other boy’s mouth with his. Takeshi hums, turns to meet Hayato’s lips more fully, and Hayato presses closer, curls a hand around the back of Takeshi’s neck more for the skin-to-skin contact than to hold the other boy in place.

He doesn’t need to hold Takeshi here. Neither of them are going anywhere.


	30. Unmasked

“You don’t need to do that,” Takeshi points out from where he’s sitting at the edge of he and Hayato’s bed. “We’re probably going to have new clothes made for the ceremony anyway.”

“Shut up,” Hayato says as he tugs another coat from the wardrobe to eye as critically as everything else he’s looked at so far. “You don’t  _know_  that.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Takeshi says with no trace of irritation at Hayato’s tone. “It’s kind of a big deal, welcoming the visiting queen on her introductory tour.”

Hayato snorts, drags a coat free without looking at it and turns to toss it at Takeshi’s smile. It flutters through the air, the fabric catching too much air resistance to be an effective projectile; if Takeshi didn’t lunge forward to catch it, it wouldn’t hit him at all before landing harmlessly to the floor.

“I’m aware,” Hayato snaps, turning back to the clothes because it’s easier to look at the array of bright colors than to try to meet Takeshi’s gaze while he speaks. “She’s my sister, I’m perfectly fucking aware.”

There’s a pause, the room hanging breathlessly quiet as Hayato closes his eyes and tries to push back the emotion constricting in his throat. In the silence the sound of the coat landing on the bed is perfectly clear, as easy to make out as the rhythm of Takeshi’s careful footsteps coming closer. Hayato doesn’t try to move away any more than he turns around; he just waits, eyes shut and throat tight, as Takeshi presses in against his back and fits his arms around Hayato’s waist.

“It’ll be okay,” Takeshi says, his voice clear with the optimism that he has always been better at than Hayato. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

“It’s been  _six years_ ,” Hayato manages, achieving something closer to a growl in his throat instead of the threat of a sob it feels like. “How do you know that?”

“She loves you,” Takeshi says, simply, like it’s an obvious fact. “Like I love you.”

That makes Hayato laugh, a sharp burst of amusement that startles him as much as it unknots his shoulders. “Not  _quite_  like you love me, I hope.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, sounding warm and amused at his shoulder. “I guess not.” He presses close against Hayato’s hair, nudges against the weight of it until he can fit his lips against Hayato’s forehead in a kiss made no less warm by the comfort of familiarity in it.

“Idiot,” Hayato says with no fire in his voice, with nothing but the low purr of affection on his tongue. He tips his head to the side, lets Takeshi press a trail of kisses against his hairline while he reaches out towards their combined wardrobe again with far less of the nervous energy that started him on this process.

He doesn’t immediately recognize the coat he touches next. The embroidery is familiar, the suggestion of birds across the shoulders tugging at some near-forgotten memory; he’s frowning at the fabric, working the edge of the sleeve through his fingers, when Takeshi lifts his head and says “ _Oh_ ” in such a starstruck tone that Hayato turns to look at him without thinking.

“What is it?” he asks, still grimacing at the itch of almost-recollection at the back of his thoughts.

Takeshi slides one of his hands free, reaches over Hayato’s shoulder to catch the fabric in his fingers. “I didn’t know I still had this,” he says, sounding awed and warm.

“What  _is_  it?” Hayato repeats, frustration starting to settle in his throat.

Takeshi’s laugh is shocked, like he’s remembering something pleasant and private, and Hayato is about to snap  _tell me what the fuck it is_  when he says, “It’s my costume for your masquerade ball,” and all Hayato’s irritation evaporates into a burn of sudden heat.

“Oh,” he says, in the first blank surprise. “ _Oh_.” He reaches out, shoves the other clothing aside, and it  _is_ , the color and pattern clear as the coat comes into view. Hayato remembers the texture, now, remembers the catch of silk threads against his hands when he grabbed at the front of this jacket, the faint shocked-pleased sound the stranger -- Takeshi -- made when their lips met. “Fuck.”

Takeshi’s fingers slide over the patterns, trace out the lines while Hayato is still too frozen by shock to move. “You were so beautiful,” he says, slow and dreamy like he’s years in the past instead of pressed flush against Hayato’s shoulders with an arm around the other’s waist. “I thought so even before I saw you on the balcony.”

“I can’t believe I kissed you.” Hayato’s fingers tighten on the fabric, remembered frustration sliding into his veins in a ghostly echo of the original sensation. “I can’t believe you didn’t  _tell_  me it was you.”

“You said not to,” Takeshi says, simple and straightforward.

Hayato huffs exasperation. “Do you always do whatever anyone tells you?”

“Mm.” Movement, another kiss, against the edge of Hayato’s jaw, this time. “I do whatever you tell me.”

Hayato reaches up to smack Takeshi’s shoulder without any force and gets himself a laugh for his trouble. “Idiot,” is what he says, but he’s smiling, now, pleased in spite of the embarrassed flush spreading over his cheeks. “What were you supposed to be, anyway?”

“A swallow,” Takeshi says, tugs at the sleeve of the coat so Hayato can see the silver threads outlining a rather artistic representation of wings across the shoulders. “The mask had feathers, too.”

“It did not,” Hayato insists. “I would remember those, at least.”

“It did.” Takeshi unwinds himself from Hayato’s waist, steps in closer to reach up to one of the higher shelves; he fumbles for a moment, brow knitting in concentration, before coming back with a mask pinned between his fingers. “Here, see?”

It’s more than strange to have the cause of so much past trouble in Hayato’s hands. Hayato recognizes the basic shape of the mask -- the silver framework, the elaborate gilding around the eyes and the edges. There are feathers after all, sprays of them on either corner, but he can see now why he didn’t notice them, when all he could remember were the color of the eyes they were framing.

“Put it on,” he says, offering it back to Takeshi. He retreats back to the bed, leaves the wardrobe open behind him while he takes Takeshi’s previous perch at the edge of the mattress. Takeshi ducks his head, ties the mask on with a tangle of dark ribbon, and when he looks back up he’s very much as Hayato first saw him, if more casually dressed. His smile is the same, the tremor of his laugh the same, and when he pads across the room to join Hayato at the edge of the bed his eyes are the same, all gold color and dark lashes like Hayato remembers. The pattern of the feathers is nearly lost in his hair, the dark blue of their color fading into the black of the locks; Hayato reaches out to trace them, running his fingers along the pattern while Takeshi watches his face with soft attention in his gaze.

“I should have recognized you,” Hayato says idly. It’s hard to believe, now, that there was ever a time he didn’t, when he didn’t know the lines of Takeshi’s face or the curve of his smile with or without a disguise.

Takeshi’s smile goes wider as he turns his head to press his mouth to the inside of Hayato’s wrist. “You did,” he says. “Eventually.”

“We could have had that week too, though,” Hayato growls. It’s a common complaint, one made easy with habit and meaningless with time, but he offers it anyway because it makes Takeshi laugh, brings him rocking in close enough for a kiss.

“Haven’t we made up for it?” Takeshi asks.

“Hm,” Hayato says noncommittally, and tips forward to catch Takeshi’s mouth with his in one rushed movement. His hair catches on gilt, strange nostalgia for a memory long past, the warmth of Takeshi’s mouth fitting as perfectly against his as it ever has. It’s an odd feeling, like he’s coming unstuck in time, and when he pulls back it’s so he can tug at the ribbons of the mask to pull it off. It goes easily, gives way to the urging of his fingers so he can set it aside, and then it’s just Takeshi in front of him, his features as familiar to Hayato as his own.

“I like you better like this,” he says, and Takeshi laughs and pulls him back into another kiss.

In a week Hayato will see his sister again for the first time in years, will be reintroduced to the newly crowned queen of his native country as the consort to the prince of this one. Right now, with Takeshi’s smile against his lips and the patter of rain outside their window, he’s more hopeful than nervous.

As long as he has Takeshi with him, he can face anything.


End file.
